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ALONG THE LITTLE QUINLEY RIVER 















P2.3 .■ 

s 


LlEHARYof OONiSRUSS 
Two 3opie» dectMvoo 

AUG 7 1905 

-*iJopyn«:nt luixy 3 

\/iU.n,tQor 

/i' AAc. Mo* 





Copyright, 1905, by Clare Allen 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

CHAPTER I. 

The Little Ashe Girl 5 

CHAPTER II. 

A Day at School 17 

CHAPTER III. 

Miss Ashe — Teacher 25 

CHAPTER IV. 

People — and a Parrot 29 

CHAPTER V. 

An Artistic Venture 35 

CHAPTER VI. 

At the “Capitol” 39 

CHAPTER VII. 

Nan James 45 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Garden of Love 51 

iii 


IV 


Content a 


CHAPTER IX. 

The City of Hope 61 

CHAPTER X. 

Among the Stores 65 

CHAPTER XI. 

Aunt Ellen’s Christmas Letter to Mildred 71 

CHAPTER XII. 

New Friends 77 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Editor Clarke’s Assistant 87 

CHAPTER XIV. 

An Evening Walk 95 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Decision and a Question 101 

CHAPTER XVI. 

In Germany 105 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Baron Kaff 113 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Kerzdorf 119 


ELLEN ASHE 


CHAPTEE I. 

The Little Ashe Girl. 

Ellen isn’t content, send her home. I 
don’t think we ought to keep her there all 
day, Aunt Alice,” said Anna Foster, tying the 
little girl’s bonnet-strings under a small chin. 

^‘There! now be good,” and the young girl 
kissed the child on both pale cheeks and shook 
her playfully. 

^^Don’t, Anna,” she objected, crossly. 'Ihere 
was an unpleasant note of command in her 
voice. 

^^Come, dear, I ’m ready to go now,” and the 
cloud cleared a little in the child’s face as her 
aunt closed the bedroom door and pinned her 
hat securely before the glass. “Don’t forget 
to lock the kitchen door,” she said to Anna, as 
she led Ellen away. 

“Hurrah for school!” shouted Anna softly 
after them, as they unlatched the gate. 

Miss Ashe spoke brightly to a neighbor who 


5 


Ellen Ashe 


was leaning over her fence, a dishpan under 
her arm, talking to a woman in the next yard, 
who was weeding the walk. 

“Ellen ’s going to-day, is she?” called the 
woman, after a crisp good-morning. 

“Yes, we ’ll try it and see if she ’ll stay,” 
Miss Ashe replied, quickening her steps as a 
bell sounded its first stroke on the cool, thin 
air of a September morning. 

The woman weeding raised her head and 
looked curiously after the pair as they disap- 
peared around the corner. 

“It does beat anything! I never saw any- 
thing so unjust and unfair in all my life. It 
does seem that their ma’s people ought to have 
taken those children. There ’s Miss Ashe 
teaching and raising two children, after she 
has brought up Anna Foster to earn her own 
living, now. It does seem like there ’s some- 
thing real wrong in it,” and Mrs. Ehoades 
stood up and straightened herself painfully. 

Her listener broke in eagerly : “But the 
Does did want the little one; at least 
Sarah Doe^ — she married Tom Snorf — ^told all 
over Norton that she offered to take Ellen, but 
Miss Ashe wouldn’t hear to the children being 
separated. Eor my part,” she continued, 
scouring out her pan with the cloth, “I don’t 
think she ’ll have to care for that little Ellen 


6 


The Little Ashe Girl 


long. She ’s a queer child. But they say 
Miss Ashe seems to think more of her than 
either of the other girls. Many and many a 
night she ^s sat up with her half the night, 
when she ^d have one of those sinking chills, 
and next morning Miss Ashe would be off to 
school, smiling as fresh as you or me after a 
good night’s rest. And if you ’d meet her on 
the street, she ’d be the first person you ’d go 
to for help if you were lost in a strange place. 
She has that helping look on her face. She ’s 
a saint on earth, if ever they come among us. 
Well, this isn’t cutting out that wrapper. I 
must go in. Mandy hasn’t come home yet, has 
she?” she inquired of her neighbor, who was 
packing salt between the bricks with her 
knife-blade. 

^^Oh, land no! She never comes when she 
goes to her IJncle Ike’s until her pa writes for 
her. Miss Foster, who will be Eddie’s teacher 
if he goes to your building?” She hailed the 
young teacher as she passed the house on her 
way to school. 

^^He ’s in the fourth grade this year, isn’t 
he? Then he ’ll come to me,” replied Miss 
Foster, smiling at the sullen-faced boy, who 
stopped cutting the fence at the mention of 
his name and came to lean against his mother 
as she talked to Anna. 


7 


Ellen Ashe 


^‘Well, I ’m glad! It seemed like he didn’t 
do no good with Miss Cook last year. I don’t 
know why, but Eddie was always so nervous 
all last wdnter. Lots of days he complained, 
so, I wouldn’t send him to school. I always 
thought she made them study too hard. Eddie 
said he never understood his lessons all the 
time he went to her. He ’s not very strong; 
he ’s like his pa’s folks,” and Mrs. Rhoades 
brushed the ashy hair away from her son’s 
heavy countenance. 

“Miss Cook has always been a very success- 
ful teacher. Perhaps Edward’s missing so 
much was more at fault than the teaching^” 
suggested Edward’s new teacher, pleasantly. 

“Mrs. Simpson, if Ellen comes home early, 
may she stay with you until school is out?” 
called Anna, and, receiving an affirmative an- 
swer, she hurried away to school after a word 
with Mrs. Rhoades. 

Mrs. Simpson hung up her dishpan a little 
absently above the kitchen sink. She wrung 
out the cloth several times in a pan of clear 
water, and stretched it carefully on the rack 
above the stove. As she sat down with a pan 
of beans to look over for dinner, she frowned 
a little at her husband, who came into the 
kitchen wdth a vest in his hand. 

“Here, just take a minute, will you, to sew 


8 


The Little Ashe Girl 


this on He threw it into her lap, and a cor- 
ner of the cloth dropped into the pan of water. 

^^Oh, there! why didn’t you hand it to me 
right She shook the wet sleeve impatiently. 
“Now I ’ve got to stop and press it, and it ’s 
late now for the beans to bake before twelve.” 

“It seems to me that you needn’t have taken 
quite so long to empty the dishpan,, either, eh, 
Maggie?” retorted her husband, with an exas- 
perating chuckle. He was struggling with a 
refractory collar, and his mood was not sweet- 
ened thereby to a degree of tolerance suitable 
to his wife’s vexatious humor. 

- “Don’t fling things back at me this morn- 
ing, Sam. If you do, you ’ll be apt to get ’em 
returned,” and two bright spots circled in her 
cheeks as she went to the window to get a bet- 
ter light on her sewing. “This is the most 
ticklish collar I ’ve had in seven years. Oh, 
there goes that button again!” and Samuel 
Simpson murmured something too low for his 
wife’s ear. 

As she looked inquiringly at him, his face 
reddened suspiciously, and he lifted a tea- 
kettle from the stove. As though pqssessed of 
some malignant spirit, the handle snapped out 
of its fastenings, and with a howl of anguish 
the unfortunate man dashed to one side to 
escape the flood of boiling water. 


9 


Ellen Ashe 


^^Save us, man, what did you do?” cried the 
terrified woman, afraid to examine the drip- 
ping hand her husband was plunging into a 
basin of cold water. 

“Do? You ask that after letting a kettle 
boil and boil, until the handle ’s melted? Oh, 
my skin! my skin! it ’s cooked! I caught my 
thumb in the handle.” Mr. Simpson clutched 
at his wife suddenly with his good hand. 
“Mag, quick ! The soda ! I ’m — ” He finished 
his sentence in a mumbling tone, and fell, his 
white face in vivid contrast with the black 
rug which lay before the kitchen table. 

“Oh, what shall I do? He never fainted 
before in his life,” and Maggie Simpson, an- 
swering her own question, threw a shawl over 
her head and flew through the darkened par- 
lor, down the walk, and' into Mrs. Khoades^ 
front yard, where she found the owner still at 
work on the walk. 

“Where ’s Eddie?” she cried, shrilly, and the 
amazed mother of the boy dropped her knife 
on her salt cup as the unusual spectacle of 
neat Mrs. Simpson, with hair disheveled and 
eyes rolling, appeared before her. 

“Why, he didnT go to school to-day. His 
tooth hurt him, and I couldnT see that one 
day made any difference, so I let him stay out. 
He ’s in there now — why, Mrs. Simpson, what 


10 


The Little Ashe Girl 


is the matter?” and Mrs. Rhoades, now thor- 
oughly frightened, followed the flying form 
before her into the house. 

“Eddie, go with all your might for Doctor 
Goodall. Sam never fainted before in all the 
twenty years I Ve known him. Run — oh, there 
he goes now, starting for the country, of 
course,” and she was out of the house again, 
waving her apron over her head as she ran. 

A buggy drew up before the gate, and a 
small, heavily-built man with gray hair and 
piercing dark eyes got out and faced the ex- 
cited woman, holding the reins in his hand. 
He was used to excited people, was this doctor 
of many years^ experience. So he listened to 
the broken explanation of the accident, while 
he searched under the seat for the medicine 
case. With a deliberateness that was torture 
to the woman who watched him, he carefully 
closed, at a page marked by a strip of leather, 
a volume of poetry he had been reading. 

“Do you always read poetry, doctor, when 
you drive?” asked Mrs. Rhoades, who had re- 
covered somewhat, not being really informed 
what was wrong, and glad to be diverted a lit- 
tle as they walked along to Mrs. Simpson’s 
house. 

The doctor walked at his usual slow pace, 
while Maggie Simpson walked far in advance. 


11 


Ellen Ashe 


as if she hoped to hurry him a little. Doctor 
Goodall cleared his throat. ^^Yes, I always do. 
My best reading is done in my buggy, out in 
the cool country,” he replied, his fine eyes 
lighting up at her question. 

‘^Poetry! You talk about poetry at a time 
like this? O Doctor, Sam may be dying!” 
burst forth Mrs. Simpson with repressed fury 
in her tones. 

‘‘But, my dear madam, we have not yet 
reached Sam. When we do, Sam is the 
all-important subject for my mind to engross 
itself with. You see,” he went on, turning 
again to Mrs. Rhoades, “Poetry is — ” 

“Say, Doc, you can hear Mr. Simpson groan- 
ing over to Johnson’s store. Hadn’t you better 
hurry up?” came in derisive tones from the 
window, as Eddie Rhoades’ head was thrust 
out of it. 

A turn in the walk brought unmistakable 
sounds of moaning to the ears of the group, 
and Doctor Goodall finished his sentence, 
though no one heard it. 

After a brief examination of the hand, the 
physician looked grave. “I ’m afraid, Mrs. 
Simpson, we can’t save the thumb,” he said 
in a low tone, avoiding her eyes. “It was a 
most unusual accident. Mr. Simpson’s thumb 
was deeply cut before this burning occurred. 


12 


The Little Ashe Girl 


and lie says the handle caught, and in some 
way the tin cut into the flesh, while the hot 
water flnished this ugly little affair.” 

“O Doctor!” and Maggie Simpson dropped 
helplessly into a chair. “You mean you will 
have to amputate it?” she inquired, steadily, 
after she had looked wildly up at him for a 
minute or so. 

“Yes, and I am glad you are a strong, brave 
woman, as it can be done right here at the 
house. I sent for my instruments,” he said, 
preparing bandages. 

“Now?” and Mrs. Simpson almost shrieked 
the word. 

“At once. You will need to help me,” and 
the doctor administered the anaesthetic. 

Some one brought in a glass of water and 
offered it to Maggie. She drank of it grate- 
fully. “That little Ashe girl is in the kitchen. 
There ’s another girl with her, and she says 
she is to stay with you until school is out,” 
said the girl, who had waited to take the glass 
with her. 

“Oh, everything happens! Of course she T1 
have to stay, but what will we do with the 
child, just now? Everybody’s too busy to 
watch her.” 

“Watch her nothing! Let her sit here. If 
she won’t stay at school where she belongs, let 


13 


Ellen Ashe 




her stay quiet out of the way. That ’s what I 
think about it.” Mrs. Rhoades held up her 
hand in warning as a twelve-year-old girl led 
Ellen into the room. 

^‘She wouldn’t stay, and Miss Ashe sent me 
with her,” explained the elder girl. 

^^Yes, just run along and leave her.” Mrs. 
Simpson gave an order to one of the helping 
women and dismissed the child from her mind. 
During the operation she stood bravely by the 
doctor, ready to hand or take away the neces- 
sary instruments. After it was all over she 
sank limply on the floor, and her husband’s 
cheery voice was the flrst to reach her ears 
after she was again in full command of her 
faculties. 

“Well, Maggie, this is pretty serious, but 
who told you to go ofl like that?” The words, 
though faintly si)oken, were Sam’s undaunted 
own, and the unexpected cheer in them re- 
vived the oppressive air as nothing else could 
have done. 

Mrs. Simpson, in a spasm of relief, threw * 
herself at him, but was speedily ejected by the 
doctor from the room. “All is quiet here for 
twenty-four hours, and no one enters the room 
except through leave,” he said, significantly, 
to Mrs. Simpson. A few women hurriedly 
prepared to leave. 


14 


The Little Ashe Girl 


As he turned to draw down a curtain, Doctor 
Goodall uttered an inarticulate word of sur- 
prise. Standing with her back against the 
wall, a look of indescribable horror in her eyes, 
was the little Ashe girl. eye, my child! 

What do you mean by being here?” demanded 
the doctor, taking her not ungently by the 
arm and walking her to the door. 

got in before you cut it off, and I couldnH 
get out again,” she said, riveting her eyes on 
the bed. 

The doctor stopped short. “You weren’t in 
during the operation?” 

He was agitated, and the sight was so novel 
that Mr. Simpson’s spirits rose. It was hard 
to keep him down. “Well, Doc, I guess you ’re 
sort of disturbed, ain’t you?” he said, but a 
twinge of pain distorted the smile and he sub- 
sided meekly. 

The little girl stopped just before she reached 
the door, and, fixing her earnest gaze on the 
man on the bed, she said slowly, paying no at- 
tention to the doctor’s vigorous shake of her 
arm, “Did it hurt much?” 

“Oh, listen! Take that child away! Hurt? 
Oh, how it does ache!” and he began to toss 
restlessly. 

Doctor Goodall sent a piercing glance after 
the child as he handed her over to the women 


15 


Ellen Ashe 


in the kitchen. “Strange little thing,” he said 
to himself, then devoted his mind to his pa- 
tient. 


IT) 


A Day at School 


CHAPTER II. 

A Day at School. 

“O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 

For better lore would seldom yearn, 

Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of what from thee I learn.” 

— Wordsworth. 

A STIFLING, blossom-scented air wafted in 
through the open windows of the schoolroom, 
and bore with it no relief from the intense 
heat of late May in central Ohio. 

Fifty children sat or stood about the room, 
most of them sitting or standing in erect posi- 
tions, and busy, but with a weary listlessness 
in their attitudes. 

Miss Korton, the teacher, interrupted a 
grammar lesson she was conducting, in the 
midst of analysis of sentences. She announced 
that there would be a slight change of program 
for that afternoon. 

Little buzzes of interest ran around the 
room, for the children had learned to prize 
Miss Korton’s “changes of program” as pleas- 
ant diversions in the monotony of the school 
routine. 

“It ’s very warm, boys and girls, but we can’t 
entirely ignore our English lesson. So I ’ve 


2 


17 


Ellen Ashe 


thought of original story-writing for to-day’s 
work.” 

Another little stir of interest convinced Miss 
Korton that her thoughtfulness of their com- 
fort, as well as their progress in school-work, 
had not been received unappreciatively by the 
children. 

^^If the boys like, they may write Indian 
stories, the kind that they would like to live, 
actually, if there was a policeman just around 
the corner to help them out of dangerous 
places,” she said, and this little attack of the 
hoys’ courage was greeted with a burst of gen- 
uine, unforced laughter. 

There was an excellent spirit of under- 
standing existing in this school between pu- 
pils and teacher. Very much of a girl herself, 
high in spirit, and with a somewhat quick 
temper that had been softened through the 
years to an unbending will, if aroused in de- 
fense of principle, this particular teacher was 
possessed of a keen and thorough knowledge 
of child nature and its needs, and how to meet 
them. Her sympathetic handling of the ^^bad- 
boy” type seldom failed to win such pupils to 
at least conformity to school rules. 

When the children were at work again, the 
superintendent entered with a package of 
papers in his hand. He usually visited the 


18 


A Day at School 


different rooms as a worker among the chil- 
dren, in order to observe the unconscious work 
of the school. Seated in the rear of the room, 
occupying one of the school-seats, he wrote 
with them, and, after a glance in his direction, 
the children seemed to be unaware of his 
presence. 

Miss Korton declared, at last, that the time 
to be given for the writing of the stories was 
up. ^^Now we will hear the reading,” she an- 
nounced, drawing her chair to one side and 
preparing her mind for an hour’s relaxation. 
She entered into these little voyages into the 
unknown world of individualism with ardor. 
She was quick to detect a stroke of power, here 
and there, and never failed to encourage longer 
and more direct strokes as the outgrowth of 
these first ones. 

Before the rustle of the papers had subsided 
a hand was raised, and Miss Korton lifted her 
chin. “What is it, Ellen?” she asked, a little 
surprised. 

“May I speak to you, please ?” 

“Yes,” but there was some disapproval in 
the tones. An awful stillness settled over the 
room as the child rose. The clock sounded its 
regular dug, dug, on and on, with the hush 
of the schoolroom to increase its volume. Still 
Ellen stood by her desk, one small hand 


19 


Ellen Ashe 


planted firmly on the edge, but making no 
move to advance into the sea of fixed atten- 
tion. 

^^Ellen,” called Miss Korton, a little imper- 
atively. 

“It ’s all right now ; I don’t need to ask you,” 
and the child sank into her seat with fiaming 
cheeks. 

A suppressed smile went around the room, 
and Miss Korton’s face flushed. The superin- 
tendent looked up from his papers, first at 
the child, then at Miss Korton. There was a 
trace of both surprise and amusement in his 
eyes. 

The little stories were good, and some of them 
were interesting, both in subject and style; for 
the children had caught something of their 
young teacher’s originality, and surprised Mr. 
Clemmons on this occasion by the quality of 
their work in this department of study. Miss 
Korton was gratified. 

The new superintendent of the Quinley 
schools had been the subject of repeated discus- 
sion, after his arrival in the little city, by both 
teachers and people. He was aware of it, and 
was thoroughly amused when a little story 
reached his ears that had grown somewhat in 
its recital by many. At an evening dinner the 
new superintendent had been attacked in his 


20 


A Day at School 


methods of conducting the schools, and one of 
his teachers, a very young and enthusiastic 
student of Shakespeare, opposed the criticism 
with violence. don’t wish to teach with a 
superintendent who lets me do as I please,” she 
had declared. ^^You don’t care to send your 
children to a teacher who is lax in discipline, 
and a good superintendent teaches his teachers. 
And as for his manner, Shakespeare” — a smile 
was provoked as the ardent student quoted 
frequently — ^Vrote these lines for people who 
are not afraid of scorn, if they live on higher 
planes of thought than their neighbors : 

“ The eagle suffers little birds to sing, 

And is not careful what they mean thereby ; 

Knowing that with the shadow of his wings 
He can at pleasure stint their melody.” 

don’t care if they are insulted,” she had 
said afterwards. can’t stand it to hear 
people criticise the schools, when they know 
nothing of the management of their own chil- 
dren.” 

“Miss Korton, you haven’t called on Ellen 
yet,” whispered a small boy, close to his 
teacher. She had purposely avoided calling on 
the child to recite, knowing that her em- 
barrassment was as painful to sensitive people 
as to the child herself; but she could not well 
do anything else now, as the boy’s whisper had 
been heard and heads were turning in the 


21 


Ellen Ashe 


direction of Ellen’s seat. ^^Read us your story, 
Ellen,” said Miss Korton,,in an easy, natural 
manner, but she lowered a blind in order to 
give the little girl an opportunity to compose 
herself. Every eye was turned in her direc- 
tion. It was always so, when Ellen was called 
upon to recite. Her timidity had become a 
school curiosity. 

Miss Korton was growing annoyed at the 
long delay, when Ellen began to read, very 
suddenly. Almost choking with fear, and 
with a face of spotted red and white, she read 
in a trembling voice, Visit to Niagara 
Falls.” 

The children listened a't first curiously, then 
impatiently, and at last began to send glances 
at one another across the room. 

• Miss Korton did not interrupt her, but 
waited until the last word, spoken almost in a 
whisper, had been read. Then she said quietly, 
with a soft touch on the head of the little girl 
who was gazing miserably at the blotted 
sheets, ^‘That is the best story we have heard 
yet,” and a nod of approval from the superin- 
tendent confirmed her words. 

The children looked with a new respect at 
the young writer of the story as they put away 
their books, preparatory to dismissal. Ellen 
lingered as the others filed out in rank, a 


22 


A Day at School 


search for a book furnishing an excuse for re- 
maining in the room until the other pupils had 
scattered to go in their several directions 
toward home. Superintendent Clemmons 
was inspecting some papers that were pinned 
for display on a strip of dark green denim 
tacked against the wall, when Miss Korton re- 
turned from seeing the children to the front 
door. 

^^Ellen, what was it you wished to ask me?” 
she asked, looking over the sheets the children 
had handed in to her for correction of errors. 

Miss Korton, I didn’t want to be called 
on,” she said, dropping her books on the floor 
in her confusion at being addressed suddenly. 

^^But your story was good. As I told you, 
it was the best. You wouldn’t wish to refuse 
the others the pleasure of hearing it, would 
you?” asked Miss Korton, smiling at her so 
kindly that Ellen’s face cleared a little. 

“I don’t know,” she said, then went on put- 
ting her desk to rights. 

After she had gone the superintendent came 
up to the desk. ^^The children did well to-day. 
Is the little girl who read last one of your 
problems?” he asked, following her with his 
eyes as she walked away from the building. 

“Yes, she is, one of my greatest; but I be- 
lieve she is not an unworthy subject for my 


23 


Ellen Ashe 


thoughts to dwell upon — here among the other 
children,” and Miss Korton tapped the papers 
with her pencil. “Wasn’t her story good?” she 
asked. “I am sure that she displays talent; 
and who can say what the years will do to de- 
velop it?” she ended, a little gravely. 

The superintendent laughed heartily. “I 
don’t know,” and he shook his head reflectively. 
“I fear you are throwing your own optimism 
into this child’s character. It was well writ- 
ten, and showed some talent, even, I ’ll admit,” 
he hastened to add, for he was just in his most 
trivial conversation. “But I think the child is 
morbid, and entirely too conscious of herself 
and her work. There isn’t enough of the spon- 
taneous life about her that children at her age 
should exhibit. Well,” he broke off suddenly, 
looking at his watch, “I shall have just flve 
minutes to walk to a meeting at the Central 
Building and reach it in time.” 

Miss Korton followed him to the door. “Su- 
perintendent Clemmons, do you know that I 
apply Emerson’s words to Ellen Ashe ? ^Bash- 
fulness and apathy are a tough husk in which 
a delicate organization is protected from pre- 
mature ripening,’ ” she quoted, with a little 
mischief in saying the last word. 

Mr. Clemmons laughed and hurried away to 
his principals’ meeting. 


24 


Miss Ashe — Teacher 


CHAPTER III. 

Miss Ashe — Teacher. 

Miss Ashe^ the new teacher of the third 
grade in the Farwell School, faced her forty- 
five pupils smilingly on this first morning of 
her school experience. She had determined, 
as she pored over school journals and maga- 
zines during the short time of preparation for 
her work, that she would succeed on her first 
day. “Of course it must be the hardest one 
of all,” she had said to her cousin Anna, who 
still held a position of honor in the Quinley 
schools. 

She found the school unruly, and it was not 
surprising, as the room had been in the care 
of three different teachers since the illness of 
Miss Atley had deprived the children of her 
instruction. 

After a morning exercise she talked to the 
children, explaining in a few well-chosen words 
that she was now their regular teacher, and 
they would be responsible to her for the use 
they made of the few remaining weeks of 
school. The children listened respectfully 
enough till a boy, with an evil leer at the new 
teacher, whose eyes were directed away from 
his corner, threw a ruler across the room. 

25 


Ellen Ashe 


The timid giggles of the girls, with hands 
clapped over their mouths, the audible mirth 
of the bolder boys, and the loud laughter of 
one tall, thin boy in the corner, who at a 
glance might easily have been mistaken for 
the superintendent, turned the quiet school 
into a scene of terror for the young teacher. 

“Now I ’m lost — or saved. This is my 
chance to either win or force their obedience 
for all time.” The thought shaped itself in her 
mind as she stood before them and' — ^looked. 
Some one giggled and put his head down on 
his desk. Gradually, one by one, the children 
became quiet and stared back at her. They 
had expected a scene, a vigorous rebellion, or 
perhaps an ineffectual punishment to be ad- 
ministered by the new teacher. They were 
disappointed, and a little interested as to what 
she would do. 

When she spoke, she looked over the heads of 
the children into the yard. “Since I am a 
stranger here, and know nothing of the town, 
could I ask one of you to take a very important 
message for me?” she asked in perfectly ex- 
pressionless tones. 

Thirty hands waved in the air, and while 
they floated about the new teacher was doing 
some rapid reading of the faces before her. 
She saw that her little plan had been success- 
ful thus far. 


26 


Miss Ashe — Teacher 

The pupils were not deceived. Children are 
not ever easily deceived. They knew that she 
was going to do something with Frank, but 
what it was they couldn’t tell as yet. They 
would have to wait and see, and that was ex- 
actly what she intended they should do. 

She called a small, pleasant-faced boy to her 
desk, and,, speaking in a tone too low for the 
ears strained to hear the message, she sent 
him from the room. 

Frank was growing a little uneasy. He 
wasn’t afraid of her, not he. But he wished 
she ’d say something, so that he could answer 
back. He was mad and he didn’t like to wait 
to show that he wasn’t afraid of her. 

Miss Ashe heard the lessons through, and 
the day was won, for the children behaved well 
and listened with good attention to her ex- 
planations. Some time after recess the boy 
she had sent away from the building returned, 
carrying a school register in his hand. 

“Thank you,” she said, in a quite audible 
tone; and a stare of relief from Frank did not 
escape the new teacher’s eye. By this time the 
children were becoming a little interested in 
their work, and only a few were noisy as heads 
were turned in Frank’s direction when Miss 
Ashe walked to his seat, and said in a voice 
not to be misunderstood, “I shall punish you 
after the others are dismissed.” 

27 


Ellen Ashe 


He offered no resistance. She had con- 
quered and the children knew it. They ac- 
ceded to her demand of unquestioning obe- 
dience from that hour of victory, and the 
school closed successfully. When she went 
back to Quinley at the close of the school term, 
after the hardest five weeks’ work she had ever 
known, she was a tired but happy young 
teacher. 

She had won the cordial approval of the lit- 
tle town in her work. The people were hos- 
pitable, though many of the fathers of the 
school children were railroad men, who trav- 
eled about from town to town, and this always 
seriously affects the discipline of a school. 
Ellen’s election to teach the following year 
was so heartily received by the people that she 
could well forget the ^^Alps that had arisen 
and sunk.” 

After all, the teacher, the true teacher, di- 
rects the growth of minds, perhaps, more than 
she teaches the children committed to her care. 
Minds will grow% and it is the high privilege 
of the teacher to direct this growth upward, 
even if a slight narrowing of the mental scope 
is required in this culture of the soul, as well 
as of the brain. 


28 


People — and a Parrot 


CHAPTEE IV. 

People — and a Parrot. 

Mrs. Herbert Allison was a woman who 
magnetized the hidden good in others to 
the surface. She discouraged by refusing the 
sanction of her voice ill-natured gossip of any 
kind, and Ellen had acquired in her daily in- 
tercourse with this resolute woman something 
of her hostesses independence of action. Mrs. 
Allison cared nothing for the weak criticism 
of the idle-minded, and managed her house 
and her children according to her own ideas of 
right and useful living. Ellen stood a minute 
at the gate, talking with her, on this last after- 
noon she was to spend with the family as a 
member of it. 

The great pine trees on either side of the 
walk merged their deep moaning into a mur- 
muring farewell to her, for she loved them 
and their low, sad music. “I say Longfellow’s 
beautiful words to my trees, ^The stars come 
out to listen to the music of the sea,’ ” said 
Ellen, looking up at them as she quoted the 
lines softly; and with another little word to 


29 


Ellen Ashe 


Mrs. Allison she left the home where so many 
happy days had been passed. 

Ellen thoroughly appreciated the sterling 
worth of the character of her cousin’s hus- 
band. In early life he had been an assistant 
in a harness shop. He was at the time of 
Ellen’s adoption into his family one of Quin- 
ley’s wealthiest citizens. He was a German, 
and an early failure in business taught him 
carefulness of money; thus the natural ten- 
dency was strengthened by a sense of his early 
mistakes. Mr. Kiel was a man of little school 
education, but his was the education of expe- 
rience and travel ; for he had traveled in every 
section of his adopted land. He was fond of 
music, but business was his real life; and his 
chief pleasure, after all, was in his increasing 
fortune. 

At the time of his marriage to Anna Foster 
he was a widower, and twenty years her senior, 
so that his little girl, Mildred, coming into 
his life in his declining years, was a veritable 
favor of Heaven, as she filled it with the sun- 
shine his nature needed. The Kiels left in 
August for their annual outing at the sea- 
shore, and Ellen was left alone with the maid, 
in general charge of the house and in partic- 
ular charge of the Mexican parrot. The bird 
hated her, and she returned the compliment of 


30 


People — and a Parrot 


Polly’s dislike with equal warmth. Once Ellen 
had accidentally overturned her cage, and from 
that day of tragedy the wire house bristled 
with feathered rage when Ellen approached it. 
However, she succeeded by strategic move- 
ments in keeping fairly at peace with her for- 
eign foe, and enjoyed the excitement a morn- 
ing’s conversation afforded. 

One afternoon Ellen closed the house care- 
fully and walked leisurely away for a call on 
Miss Aisles, an artist. There was a wonderful 
idea resolving itself into a definite purpose un- 
der the new tan hat, prettily trimmed with 
bunches of grapes. The hat matched the tan 
stripes in her gingham dress, and the colors in 
the grapes blended with the pinks and corals in 
the pearl buttons that relieved the plainness of 
the waist. As she descended the steps, Polly de- 
ceitfully lowered her head. “You hypocrite! 
If I should ruffle that brilliant satin emptiness, 
I never could play Cupid’s Garden again,” 
said Ellen, half wondering that so little of a 
brain could cherish so much hatred; but she 
was not then a philosopher. Had she been, she 
might have reached the conclusion that only 
little brains have room for revengeful 
thoughts. 

She found Miss Aisles in her studio. The 
artist laid down her crayon as Ellen entered. 


31 


Ellen Ashe 


and pushed away the canvas on which she was 
sketching a head of her mother. 

^Will you help me?” asked Ellen, with a 
glance of ever-new admiration around the 
room. Pictures in oil and water colors, casts, 
and a few excellent prints adorned the walls 
and tables, while an exquisite bronze piece oc- 
cupied a corner. A real Indian rug covered 
half the floor space, and a copper Paul Pevere 
lantern. Miss Aisles’ latest novelty, swung 
above a small door. 

Ellen unfolded her little plan to Miss Aisles, 
’m going to use my own money and furnish 
my room new,” she announced. would like 
your help in selecting; that is, if you are not 
too busy,” and Ellen looked doubtfully at the 
canvas. 

“Not a hit. I ’ll go; but I ’ll have to run 
and dress for the street. I haven’t taken the 
time before,” and in an incredibly short ten 
minutes she was ready to leave with Ellen. 

After the girls had selected a plain tan mat- 
ting for the room, they strolled away for one 
of their favorite walks to the old bridge across 
the little Quinley River. Quinley was a city 
that attracted the favorable notice of every 
traveler through its territory. It was high, 
and lay in the region that just, and no more, 
claimed Ohio’s right to the description, “roll- 


32 


People — and a Parrot 


ing.” But the beautiful drives that encircled 
the historic little city, and enticed many a 
wayfarer to explore their cool lengths, and the 
many handsome but few palatial homes, were 
the objects of the stranger’s admiration. Miss 
Aisles sketched the little river, with its over- 
hanging shrubbery and just a glimpse of the 
schoolhouse tower between the trees along its 
bank, until the red and purple sunset lights 
played over the water and warned her of the 
approach of night. 


33 


An Artistic Venture 


CHAPTEE V. 

An Artistic Venture. 

When the Kiels returned to Quinley, late 
in September, Ellen was awaiting them at the 
station. She took Mildred from her father’s 
arms and carried her, with her sleepy little 
head bobbing over her shoulder, to the house, 
two blocks away. Laying the little girl on her 
own bed, she invited her parents into her room. 
The transformation was complete. The dingy 
carpet was replaced by the cool, light matting. 
The heavy, high walnut bed had been removed 
and a white and gold iron frame rested in its 
place, while a handsome dressing-table with a 
carved seat stood between the two daintily- 
curtained east windows. 

But the walls were Ellen’s especial pride, for 
on these most of her money had been expended. 
Hanging in a long, narrow space was an au- 
tumn picture, painted by Miss Aisles ex- 
pressly to fill it. Its gorgeous coloring was 
heightened by a dull green screen, opened 
against the lighter wall beneath. A bowl of 
nasturtiums, framed in gold, hung above the 
dressing-table, upon which Ellen had placed a 


35 


Ellen Ashe 


real bowl of the splendid flowers. An ocean 
scene, in white, and a picture of her little 
cousin Mercedes, in fancy white costume, sil- 
houetted in a plain black frame, were hung 
in good lights; but Ellen’s favorite picture 
was her “Wild Roses.” This piece, as the 
others, was Helen Aisles’ work, and it was 
a picture that was good in power as well as 
pleasing to the eye. One of the great Amer- 
ican painters, whose pupil Miss Aisles had 
been while a student in the East, had favored 
the picture with his notice. 

Mr. Kiel’s face expressed varying emotions 
as he viewed the result of Ellen’s work. 
There was momentary disapproval in it, but 
after some mild advice on the use and abuse 
of money, he praised and admired to her en- 
tire satisfaction in her artistic venture. She 
candidly admitted that she was lavish in the 
expenditure of her money; but her motto was 
her own, “Be prodigal of the present and save 
the future.” As her health was breaking a 
little, she began to make plans for a visit to the 
East early in the next summer. She believed 
that a month or so at the seashore would save, 
not only the dollars of the future, but years of 
impaired strength as well. So she traveled 
during her vacation through the eastern States 
with Miss Lawrence, one of the teachers, and 


36 


An Artistic Venture 


returned to Quinley early in the autumn, fresh 
and vigorous, and full of new ideas for her 
coming year’s work. 


37 



















At the Capitol 


CHAPTEE YI. 

At the ^^Capitol/'' 

please, Miss Ashe, do let us march in 
the hall this afternoon !” and a crowd of merry 
boys and girls encircled their teacher as she 
sat at her desk. 

Miss Ashe put her hands over her ears. 
‘^How can I let you do anything unless you are 
more quiet?” she objected, waving them away 
from her. She rose as the bell sounded and 
the children found their seats. 

Quinley was justly proud of her schools. 
The Board of Education was composed of men 
of great ability, and a few of the members 
were men of State and E’ational power, so 
that the schools were built up, gradually, from 
schools as good as those of any other city of 
equal size to the distinction of being classed 
with the best in the country. 

The names of many distinguished men and 
women were on the ^Visitors’ books” of the 
teachers, and the governor of the State had 
honored the little city by an especial visit to 
her schools. The beautiful Lowell Building 
was the pride of the community. It resembled 


39 


Ellen Ashe 


the capitol building, and the grounds had been 
christened by the children College Hill. Visi- 
tors were entertained at this building if an- 
other was missed; for the costly and hand- 
some structure was ideal in its completeness. 
It met the requirements of bodily as well as 
mental health within its aesthetic walls. 

Ellen’s was the highest school in the “capi- 
tol,” but she was not the principal. The 
teacher in charge of the seven grades was Miss 
Harburg, and one of her friends. 

The teachers were receiving on this day a 
drawing supervisor in the schools of a great 
city west of Quinley. She was a friend of 
Miss Aisles’, but the private little purpose of 
her visit was a quest of new ideas; for Miss 
Aisles enjoyed a national reputation. Miss 
Silverton visited Miss Ashe during the last 
half hour before school closed for the day. 
Ellen gave her instructions to the children, 
and they fell quietly to work on a charcoal 
study of a growing lily. The two teachers sat 
at the desk, and Miss Silverton looked about 
her, her critical eye noting the decoration of 
the room in all its details. 

Ellen’s own pictures hung in the room, and 
the children, pleased at this interest in their 
day-home, repaid her by becoming careful 
little desk-keepers. They learned that a 


40 


At the Capitol 


well-ordered room is conducive to well-or- 
dered thoughts, and deeds are thoughts 
first. Miss Ashe laughed when some one 
remonstrated with her for washing off the 
slate-board so frequently. “If I bring care- 
lessly or indifferently written work before 
the children, without fail theirs will be a per- 
fect imitation in that respect. I experimented 
once to see how far this imitation of a teacher 
is carried on in the children’s daily lives. I 
wrote problems on the board and crossed my 
H’s’ in a decided slant, so,” and she illustrated 
with a piece of crayon. “Saying nothing, of 
course, to them, I requested the children to 
copy the problems first, and show the solution 
neatly below ; and when I examined the papers, 
one-third of them showed ^t’s’ crossed in a 
slant,” and Ellen had added, thoughtfully, “It 
is a serious thing to be a teacher.” 

Miss Ashe announced that Miss Silverton 
would criticise the best drawings. “Will you 
bring yours, Isabel?” she asked, holding out 
her hand for the sketch. A very active, pretty 
girl came up to her, with a modest but> viva- 
cious glance at the visitor. 

Miss Silverton uttered an exclamation of 
surprise. “That is excellent in tone,” she 
said, looking at the drawing critically. 

The young artist colored, but her dancing 


41 


Ellen Ashe 


eyes were also a little direct in their gaze. As 
she walked away she shook her paper in the 
face of a studious little pupil as she passed his 
seat. 

^^Isabel !” There was amused dismay in Miss 
Ashe’s tones. “You will ruin your lily. The 
fixative has not been used on it,” and her eyes 
followed this embodiment of fun and genius 
with the pride of the teacher in a brilliant 
pupil. 

“YTio is she?” asked Miss Silverton, and 
Ellen told her, adding, “Her work is unusual, 
don’t you think?” 

Miss Silverton agreed graciously. Then 
she laughed. “I believe you teachers would 
have me believe that your city is a city of 
fame,” she said, banteringly. 

There was just a tinge of acid in the remark, 
and Ellen remembered that Miss Silverton’s 
position in the schools of the great western 
city had first been offered to Miss Aisles, who 
had declined to accept it. 

When the visitor had departed with the fifth 
grade teacher, who, as Ellen described her, was 
one of the wittiest girls south of the St. Law- 
rence River, and the fourth grade teacher, 
whose perfect gymnastic exercises were models 
in the school. Miss Harburg brought in her 
spelling papers to Ellen’s room. 


42 


At the Capitol 


“Another day closed, and Indiana Jackson 
can’t spell her name yet. Did you see our new 
gymnastics to-day ? The children’s movements 
were as graceful as mine,” and she illustrated 
with a perfect imitation of the awkward mo- 
tions of her six-year-old babies. 

“Boone Jones and his papa are going to 
leave for the West, next week. At least that 
is the way Boone told it. I haven’t the slight- 
est doubt that his papa will reverse the order 
of precedence one of these days. Do you know, 
I have a presentiment that my Boone will do 
something wonderful some day — ^become the 
wild man of Great Skull Canon, and travel 
with a museum, or something of that sort. He 
got up to-day during the reading hour, and 
told the children about the trees he was going 
to chop down, and the wild cats he was going 
to scare away from his door when they came 
prowling around at night. A mighty warrior 
is Daniel Boone Jones!” 

The principal of the Lowell Building was 
one of the teachers who are called “best” in 
the various schools of a city, but she was irre- 
pressible. 

Miss Harburg walked with Ellen to her own 
door, and they discussed the day’s events until 
Miss Bennes accosted them. 

Ellen’s roommate this winter was the daugh- 


43 


Ellen Ashe 


ter of a French noble family, and, although 
she had no relatives in America, the light- 
heartedness of the French was thoroughly 
hers. Their hostess was a young widow whose 
grief and sorrow did not abate with time. 
After supper that evening, Antoinette read 
aloud a humorous selection from her favorite 
magazine, while Mrs. Ford sewed and Ellen 
worked on a plan of her schoolroom that she 
was preparing for the superintendent. An- 
toinette concluded her story and selected an- 
other that told of the lonely life of a widow. 
It was suggestive of Mrs. Ford’s loss, and she 
regretted that she had begun it when their 
hostess left the room abruptly. 

Ellen buried her nose thoughtfully in a 
great bunch of roses and carnations which her 
children had sent to her during her illness, a 
few days before. “Poor woman!” she said, 
drawing a long breath of fragrance from the 
lovely messengers of good will. 

Antoinette was so filled with remorse and 
annoyance at her thoughtless reading that she 
went to her own room “to do penance,” she 
said, and Ellen worked on alone until her plan 
was ready for the superintendent’s next visit. 


44 


Nan James 


CHAPTER YII. 

Han James. 

“To meet Mrs. Leopold Parker Jewett, Mrs. 
Arlington James requests the pleasure of your 
company, on Saturday afternoon, October 5, 
from four until seven o’clock, two hundred 
Lincoln Avenue,” read Ellen, coming in from 
school one evening, rose-cheeked and bright- 
eyed from her breezy walk. “Ah, yes, I ’m de- 
lighted to meet Mrs. Leopold Parker Jewett, 
whoever she may be.” She replaced the card in 
the envelope. 

When Ellen entered the great drawing-room 
on the afternoon of Mrs. James’ reception, the 
rooms were well filled. Her hostess presented 
Ellen to her husband’s niece after she had re- 
ceived her with a pleasant little smile. 

Mrs. James wore a gown of cream velvet, 
trimmed in rich lace. An Oriental ruby neck- 
lace burned against her white throat, and was 
clasped with a diamond of rare purity. The 
carmine silk folds that glistened and glowed 
richly against the white, accentuated the sim- 
plicity shown in the costume of the girl who 
stood by Mrs. Jewett’s side. She was Miss 


45 


Ellen Ashe 


Nan James, and a daughter as totally unlike 
her mother as a daughter could well be. Miss 
James at an early age had engaged herself in 
marriage to a young man of exceptional abil- 
ity, but worldly poor, and with a few early 
mistakes to account for in his sum of success- 
ful later years. His early life was wrong only 
in the irresolution of a boy who has no aim, 
but who waits for the future to realize his 
ideals of a noble manhood. When he met Nan 
James, all of the latent force in his fine char- 
acter concentrated in his new life-purpose, and 
he became a strong and live impersonation of 
the words of the Koran, was as a gem con- 
cealed.” Mrs. James, however, resorted to 
every means in her power to force the with- 
drawal of her daughter’s promise to marry this 
^^person, who, my dear, has literally no pros- 
pect in the world of ever becoming a success in 
life.” 

Alfred Gordon disappeared from Quinley 
quite mysteriously. Nothing was heard of 
him for several years, then he was known to 
be a brilliant lawyer in a flourishing Southern 
capital. 

She was a beautiful girl, this stately, low- 
voiced daughter of the leader of the city’s 
social life. Despite her mother’s commands 
and entreaties, she persisted in wearing gowns 


46 


Nan James 


of noticeable simplicity, even plainness. Her 
taste was exquisite, but she selected only white 
and the softest tints for her hats and gowns. 
Her mother had on this occasion permitted her 
daughter’s selection of her (Mrs. James’) din- 
ner costume ; and so it was that she was an ob- 
ject of favorable comment. 

Nan’s beauty was the restful type. Her soft 
white mull fell gracefully about her feet, but 
there was no train. A cluster of yellow roses 
in her gold belt vied with the rich lights in 
her shining hair; and her deep blue eyes held 
a tender welcome for even the most casual of 
her mother’s guests. 

In the dining-room Ellen and Mrs. Kiel 
chatted while they were served with dainty 
ices. Mrs. Kiel described in a lively manner 
Mildred’s latest accomplishment, and Ellen 
listened with interest while she ate her 
salad. Keleasing themselves from a detaining 
conversation with a little group of friends, the 
cousins slipped away into the tiny but per- 
fectly appointed conservatory for a quiet talk. 
Ellen breathed a sigh of relief. The musical 
dropping of the little fountain was soothing 
to the ear after the buzz of conversation in 
the dining-room; and the waves of one of the 
old waltzes, so dear to the lover of sentiment 
in music, rippled into the little room and 


47 


Ellen Ashe 


melted in the cool plash of the fountain. Ellen 
listened, with a dreamy sadness in the eyes 
that, although not old, had learned to look be- 
neath the surface flutter and sparkle of the 
butterfly-life and see the ugly, brown worm of 
common woe and submission to the inevitable. 

Some one entered the little flower-room, but 
with a glance at the cousins withdrew hastily. 
Ellen rose, startled into one of those half- 
conscious answers to mute appeals we read 
in eyes sometimes; but Miss James had disap- 
peared. 

In the wrap-room Ellen found an oppor- 
tunity for the flrst time, that evening, for a 
word with her uncle’s young wife, Margaret 
Doe. As they walked away from the gay 
house, streaming with light and vibrant with 
silvery voices, Margaret repeated a bit of 
gossip to Ellen. “Ellen, you know Nan 
James’ history, don’t you? To-night about 
six o’clock a strange man came to the house 
and asked to see Miss James. They told him 
that it would be impossible, but he wouldn’t 
be turned away, and at last Nan heard of it 
and ordered them to admit him into the li- 
brary. She went in alone, despite her mother’s 
objection, and when she came out she held a 
letter in her hand. Her strength of will is so 
great that she played her part through like the 


48 


Nan James 


perfect actress she is on life’s great stage, for 
that letter was from the man she loved. He 
was accidentally shot while with a fox-hunting 
party in Virginia, and an hour before he died 
he wrote to Nan. This man brought the 
letter.” 

After a quiet little good-night Mrs. Doe left 
Ellen at her own door. 


4 


49 



The Garden of Love 


CHAPTEE VIII. 

The Garden of Love. 

“When Faith and Love, which from thee parted 
never, 

Had ripened thy first soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this load of death, 
called Life, 

Which us from life doth sever.” 

^Milton, 

A LITTLE note was delivered to Miss Ashe, 
one morning, as she was leaving for school. 
Ellen read it in some surprise. 

^^My dear Miss Ashe,” it ran, “will you come 
to see me this afternoon ? 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Nan James.''^ 

The little missive was replete with Nan’s 
own directness and simplicity of action. 

Some very eventful days in Ellen’s life 
counted the time between the last visit and 
this day, a month later, when she was admitted 
by Mrs. James into the reception hall and 
conducted to Nan’s room. It opened on to a 
balcony at the end of the wide upper hall, and 
its windows reflected the sunsets. 

The girl rose to meet Ellen, and there was 
a little desultory talk before Mrs. James was 


51 


Ellen Ashe 


called down-stairs. A silence fell between the 
girls when they were alone, and Nan sat look- 
ing at Ellen as she studied a picture of Nan’s 
mother that embellished a fifth of the wall, and 
spoke loudly the presence of Mrs. James in a 
gorgeous, jewel-incrusted evening robe of pur- 
ple velvet. 

Nan’s eye followed Ellen’s gaze, and her 
delicate face flushed. “Mamma’s birthday 
present to me, a year ago,” she explained, with 
a look of repulsion in the eyes of adamantine 
purity. “Miss Ashe, you write, don’t you?” 
she asked suddenly. 

Ellen was surprised, but she answered 
spiritedly: “Yes, indeed. I think I see more 
and more of Byron’s artistic despair in my 
poems; just a tinge, too, of his grand gloomi- 
ness; in fact, I think — ” 

“Don’t, Miss Ashe,” interrupted Nan, laugh- 
ing, but with a hurt look in her lovely eyes. 
“This talent may become a world-power in 
you, for good or ill; for a writer teaches — al- 
ways. Whether he would amuse, or write with 
a deep purpose in his heart, he teaches some- 
thing. He may teach idleness, for a book of 
doubtful fiction does no more than that, or he 
may establish that most-to-be-deplored habit 
of satirizing the human race. O Ellen” — the 
word came so naturally that neither was aware 


52 


The Garden of Love 


of the unaccustomed address — you do write 
don’t become a satirist. Don’t drag to light 
the faults and mistakes that may have been the 
cause of many an hour of agony and remorse, 
and hold them up with the idea of helping an- 
other brother or sister in the human family, 
or some such mistaken idea of world-benefac- 
tion. Expand and develop — don’t quarrel with 
nature. But callousness to wrong — that is an- 
other view of i:he question. Let me tell you 
about a girl friend of mine in 'New York,” she 
continued, piling the soft cushions about her 
head. 

^^You know I spent a winter in New York 
after Mr. Gordon left Quinley.” She said this 
quite naturally, but a quick color came into 
her face and was gone before she spoke again. 

was a guest at the home of the girl of whom 
I speak, and she is one of the wealthiest girls 
in the city, as well as a member of one of New 
York’s oldest families. Her sister is a famous 
and honored actress. I attended a semi-private 
reception for the President with her, and I 
was amazed at what she did on this occasion. 
In the receiving line, introducing to the Presi- 
dent’s wife, was one of the most distinguished 
statesmen in America. He is a leader in poli- 
tics and in the social clubs, and a Shakes- 
pearean scholar of note, but a man of morals 


53 


Ellen Ashe 


hard to reproduce in a like degree of laxity. 
As we passed along the line, touching the 
hands of the different men and women, we 
came to this Senator. Viola English swept 
past the hand he extended — ^he knew her father 
in politics — and cordially pressed the hand of 
the President’s wife. As we drove away in the 
carriage, Viola said, ^Let me quote his Shakes- 
peare to him : 

“ When we for recompense have praised the vile 
It stains the glory in that happy verse which 
aptly sings the good.” 

^He admires so much this great master 
character painter who has no heroes; he only 
presents the strong, brave, fearless woman 
who dies, if need be, for her conviction.’ ” 

I J^Tan had spoken quite rapidly. She waited 
a moment, after she had concluded her little 
recital of her friend’s defiance of social law, 
to recover her breath. Brushing her soft hair 
away from the brow that bore the seal of im- 
mortality, she looked at Ellen and began to- 
speak again, but a sharp, quick breath caught 
her words, and she placed her hand at her 
side. 

“Since my illness I have had these attacks 
frequently. No, don’t ; there is nothing mother 
can do.” She half rose, and leaned toward 


54 


The Garden of Love 


Ellen. am going to tell yon what I have 
never told to any one before; first, because of 
the sympathy and understanding in your eyes 
on the night of mother’s dinner, and, secondly, 
because I believe that some day you will be- 
come a writer of influence; and I cannot leave 
this earth until I have given to the world a 
little of the joy and peace and hope that has 
been given to me.” 

^^Miss James, you are not strong enough to 
tell me this now. Perhaps on another day,” 
began Ellen, hot tears springing up into her 
eyes as she looked at the fair, spiritual face 
before her. 

Nan shook her head positively. ^^No, now. 
Then I can wait in perfect peace for the end. 
It is not far off,” she said. With a quick 
change of tone she began to speak again. 
“You know the event that saddened my life 
so many years ago.” Neither smiled, though 
it had been but five. “Since that time, Ellen, I 
have tried hard to fill the hours with useful, 
earnest work and to see in the lives of those 
around me a heavier grief than mine. But, 
oh, my Eather, how hard it was to live!” and 
with a sob so intense in suffering that Ellen 
rose and went to her. Nan threw herself on 
the bed, like a frail flower that has bent at 
last under a fierce and beating day of storm. 


55 


Ellen Ashe 


She repulsed Ellen gently. ^‘Let me finish, 
Miss Ashe,” she said, clinging to the chair as 
she made her way back to it. “I threw myself 
into work while I was in New York. I visited 
the slums and the hospitals and the sky-attics, 
taking a few flowers or a little fruit each time, 
and enjoying it far more than they who are 
called human beings. Once — I ’ll never forget 
him — a feeble old man stood on the corner, 
holding out his hat. We know there are many 
impostors in a big city, but I watched this man 
before he was aware of my approach, and I 
heard him say, What shall I do? Oh, what 
shall I do?’ It was one of the coldest days of 
the winter, and New York’s climate is not 
mild. So I dropped a two-dollar note into his 
hat, and as I hurried away he called after me, 
‘May God bless you for saving me from taking 
my life.’ I tell you this, Ellen, to prove how 
little we, who are safely shut away from life’s 
desperate side, know of the tragedy in every 
day’s sunshine in a great city.” 

Nan had brightened a little. Her voice was 
stronger, and her cheeks a little pink now. 
She took a picture from a drawer in her secre- 
tary. Carefully tied around it was a string of 
faded violets. “Alfred sent these to me once, 
when I begged him to give up smoking. He 
sent the flowers, saying merely on a card, ‘I 


56 


The Garden of Love 


will let the violets answer for me.’ That was 
just before our engagement.” 

Nan handed the picture, which she had 
tinted in water colors, to her caller. ^^Do you 
think he looks like the personage mamma 
called himf’ she asked, a bitter little smile 
curving her lips. 

Ellen remembered the young man, and the 
picture recalled him as she had last seen him, 
walking with Nan one Sunday afternoon. 
Tall, considerably taller than the average man, 
he possessed a form that closely approached 
perfection. There was nobility in the car- 
riage of the head, and the dark eyes looked at 
the beholder with a dreamy, poetic beauty in 
their depths. The mouth was expressive of 
musical sensibility, and the general look of 
elevation of thought was not marred by a high 
forehead, that seemed strangely adorned with 
closely-clinging rings of silky black hair. 

Ellen looked long at the picture and at last 
returned it reverently. 

Nan did not replace it in the drawer, but 
closed her slender fingers over it as she talked. 
“And now I will come to the real object of my 
sending for you to come here this afternoon. I 
am talking now, not to Miss Ashe, my friend 
of the day, but to a woman of broad and deep 
intelligence, who may in the course of years 


57 


Ellen Ashe 


influence the thoughts of other women, also of 
broad and deep intelligence. 

‘‘My mother is a perfect type of the social 
life of to-day. She has a mind — of a kind. 
But the woman of this pleasure life never is a 
power; it takes strength to become a power. 
As for my mother’s interference in the lives 
of two people who were meant for one another, 
I have no wish to see her suffer. Her punish- 
ment is not in my hands.” 

A noble pity swept across the beautiful face 
as Nan walked across the room and stood be- 
fore her mother’s picture. The cold, brilliant 
eyes stared with insolent confidence down into 
the crystal-pure soul burning in those that 
gazed at her. “She believes that she is happy,” 
she said softly, turning away with a graceful 
little gesture of wonder and helplessness. She 
seemed to have forgotten the main purpose of 
the talk, and Ellen waited for her to remem- 
ber. 

Nan’s face and manner changed in expres- 
sion when she came at last to Ellen, and, sit- 
ting down before her, looked into her face 
with a quiet, searching reading of it. Her 
voice was entirely free of emotion when she 
began to speak. 

“A week before the news of Alfred’s death 
reached me by letter, I was sitting — one even- 


58 


The Garden of Love 


ing it was — alone, with the bright light burn- 
ing above my head, and mother in the adjoin- 
ing room, answering a lot of invitations that 
the afternoon’s mail had brought her. A min- 
ute before I had been thinking that, perhaps, 
sometime, somewhere, my prayer that Alfred 
would come back to me would be answered; 
and suddenly the atmosphere of the room 
cleared in a way I cannot describe, and Alfred 
called to me, as distinctly as I speak to you, 
only that the tone was not audible, as mine. I 
waited, sitting like a statue, listening to 
mother’s pen scraping over the paper in the 
next room, and trying hard to make myself 
believe that I had been dreaming. But, Ellen, 
the voice that called my name was his, and the 
wonderful beauty and peace that has since 
filled my life I cannot express to you in words. 
There is always with me now a feeling that 
death is a beautiful change in form, and that 
those we mourn and grieve are smiling all 
around us at the childishness of our grief. Oh, 
when I see a mother, so heart-broken over the 
loss of her darling, perhaps her only boy, I 
want to put my arms around her and lift her 
up into this wonderful life in which I can see 
no sorrow, no suffering, no disappointment, 
only the delight of soul-communion, and the 
sweet music of love, everywhere.” 


59 


Ellen Ashe 


Nan’s voice sank to a whisper, and as the 
last words died on her lips a pallor unlike the 
others that had appeared over her face during 
the afternoon shadowed her cheek, and Ellen 
saw that she was struggling for breath. She 
called Mrs. James, and the house was aroused. 
They laid her on the bed and a physician was 
summoned. 

Nan’s golden head was slightly turned on 
the pillow, and the white hand lay, frail and 
still, covering the picture which Ellen slipped 
into it as they tenderly lifted her. 

A long ten minutes passed, of silence broken 
only by Mrs. James’ sobs. At last the blue- 
lined lids fluttered a little, and Nan opened 
her eyes as Mrs. James bent over her. Twin- 
ing her arms around her mother’s neck, she 
drew her head down to hers. mother, won’t 
you believe now that Alfred was worthy of me ? 
He is leading me away to the garden of love” ; 
and with a gentle sigh the arms relaxed their 
hold. 


60 


The City of Hope 


CHAPTER IX. 

The City of Hope. 

Ellen^'s first letter, written to her sister 
Lottie, in Redville, was characteristic. ^^Just 
a month since I resigned my position in Quin- 
ley,” she wrote, “and I am ready to declare 
that Chicago is home; and hereafter I am 
Miss Ellen Ashe, of Chicago.” 

The letter was accompanied with a ludicrous 
sketch of herself, catalogued, “Miss Ellen 
Ashe as she prepares for a walk on the Lake- 
Shore Drive.” 

Ellen passed the first night in her new home 
in an apartment house on State Street. When 
she walked for the first time in several years 
along the shore of dancing blue Lake Michi- 
gan, she looked about her with new eyes. She 
was opposed bitterly in this venture into the 
great world by her cousin and sister. Mr. 
Kiel had died quite suddenly a week before 
she said farewell to her friends in Quinley, 
and, nearly prostrated with her own grief in 
parting with her cousin in her trouble, she 
faced the new life, as has been said, with new 
eyes. 


61 


Ellen Ashe 


Depositing her entire little worldly sum in 
a convenient bank, she was ready to await de- 
velopments. She was preparing for literary 
work, hut of what particular kind she was not 
able yet to determine. Tingling with life and 
hope, she enjoyed as keenly the clang and rush 
of the street-cars as the graceful trees that 
nodded a welcome to her as she entered Lin- 
coln Park. The very stones in the lake-front 
wall seemed to greet her with the spirit of this 
great, warm, pulsing heart of the West,, which 
Ellen immediately christened the City of 
Hope. 

Very balmy was the breeze that blew in 
from the lake, and carried away with it some 
of the little smarting pain of recent wounds. 
She returned to her apartment after a visit to 
the Zoo in Lincoln Park, and a little chat with 
the keeper, who informed her that if she liked, 
some day, he would allow her to enter one of 
the lion cages with him, so she could say, he 
added with a good-natured smile at her, that 
she had been where plenty of people didn’t go. 
This unexpected hut somewhat alarming hos- 
pitality was received by Ellen with a hasty 
regret that she would probably not be able to 
often visit the Zoo. 

She climbed to the third floor of the apart- 
ment building, and entered her room, which 


62 


The City of Hope 


she shared with a friend of her friend’s. Miss 
Dearborn was older than Ellen, but the girls 
were entirely happy in their close association. 
The room was large and well ventilated, but 
the halls through which she must daily pass 
were dark and depressing. But Ellen found 
a solace in even these, for the windows over- 
looked the court where street musicians came 
and sang for pennies that were thrown to 
them by the occupants of the apartments. 

The man who occupied the room next to 
Ellen’s was a Spaniard who sang. Frequently 
beginning his practice at six in the morning, 
he occasionally sang until eleven at night. He 
sang the songs of the newsboys on the streets, 
and he sang selections from the most difficult 
operas; so, it may be repeated, he sang all 
songs at all times. 

Ellen rather enjoyed the cheery music dur- 
ing the first few days after her arrival, and 
then she passed through the various stages of 
annoyance, amusement, and finally indiffer- 
ence. In time she gave the singing of Senor 
Tartosa no more of her attention than she 
vouchsafed to the clanging of the electric cars 
a block away. 

Doctor Lonsdale, the young English-Cana- 
dian whose room was the one across the hall 
from the Spanish singer, was a type of the 


63 


Ellen Ashe 


wholesome, boyish manhood as yet unspoiled 
by the city. The young Englishman was an 
appreciative receiver of the little invitations 
to lunch which the girls extended more and 
more frequently, as evening after evening 
found him in his room. 

Ellen Ashe was far from being a Bohemian. 
She was as far incapable of adopting the fas- 
cinating but loose laws which these generous 
sons of freedom obey as she was incapable of 
breathing the atmosphere of a home where the 
ordinary conventionalities were of supreme 
importance; and yet she herself was quick to 
notice and resent any purposed departure 
from the few necessary laws of behavior that 
the well-bred man or woman, everywhere, finds 
it necessary to conform to. So, though Ellen 
did not altogether approve of these little 
lunches, she saw no way in which exception 
could be taken to them, after all; and her 
bearing toward this young Englishman was a 
perfect mixture of the trained woman of the 
world, and the broader interest of one kindly 
thinking traveler in another whom he meets 
on the one great highway. 

And so the first few months passed, and 
brought some new power to E^den’s mind and 
character every day; for Chicagto favors rapid 
mental development. 


64 


Among the Stores 


CHAPTEE X. 

Among the Stores. 

It must be recorded that there was one 
trait in the character of Ellen Ashe that had 
been a source of infinite amusement to her 
friends, and had filled her relatives with grave 
alarm, and that was her disregard of the value 
of money. She refused to entertain it as a 
vital factor in her ideal of a successful life. 
She remembered the words of a great man she 
had talked with once. “Money,” said he, “is 
an indication of fairness existing between you 
and me. It has no other purpose in our lives” ; 
and there was truth in this to her. 

The Christmas holidays were not far off, 
and Ellen, with a friend from Quinley, who 
was spending a week with her, started early 
one Monday morning to make a shopping tour 
of the city. Monday was “bargain day”; and 
though Miss Ashe was apt to forget what day 
it was, if a decidedly attractive garment 
caught her fancy, she agreed to allow Mrs. 
Scott the opportunity to buy at reduced prices. 

As they walked slowly through the great 
stores, the crowds became greater with every 


5 


65 


Ellen Ashe 


minute. In the basement of one ‘^city under 
roof” Ellen became interested in the conver- 
sation of the clerk who had sold her the goods 
with the girl who sat in her little cage, above 
the counter, and wrapped the articles as she 
looked over bills that were handed in to her 
for inspection. She was responsible for all 
errors at the close of the day’s accounts, and 
Ellen noticed that most of these ^^inspectors’’ 
were girls of more than average dexterity and 
ability, as compared with the clerks in the 
store. 

am sure that I laid the ten dollars right 
here by the goods,” said the clerk, emphatic- 
ally, but there was a look of terror growing in 
her white face. 

The inspector for this department was a 
young Jewess. 

^^And I am sure that you did not. I found 
no bill when I wrapped the goods.” There was 
an ugly suspicion in her eyes. 

The clerk began to assert again, when an 
usher appeared on the scene. ^^What is 
wrong?” he asked in low tones. “This con- 
fusion must cease,” and, turning on his heel, 
he left the department. 

Ellen was convinced that he would not fail 
to inquire into the matter; but this great store 
was managed on the principle of absolute 


66 


Araong the Stores 


courtesy being extended to its visitors and 
patrons at all times, at whatever cost to the 
store itself. 

She left the department almost regretfully 
when her change was given to her by the 
trembling hand of the clerk. Ellen pictured 
the girl, alone in her dreary, high little room, 
perhaps, after the day’s toil, wondering where 
the money would come from to meet this unex- 
pected call for it. 

She was recalled to her own world by Mrs. 
Scott, who was selecting ribbon and compar- 
ing it with the design displayed on the main 
floor; exactly the same in quality, too. This 
was a little secret that Ellen had learned, but 
truth compels the statement that she seldom 
remembered it at the proper time: that in the 
basement rooms of a great city store the same 
quality of goods may be purchased at consid- 
erably less than the price asked on the upper 
floors. They crossed to the Annex and de- 
parted for a visit to the Boston Store. 

The pleasure the two women derived from 
their afternoon’s shopping was considerably 
lessened by their being unwilling witnesses to 
a fatal accident. A little cash girl, while run- 
ning with her change, fell, and so great was 
the crowd that a woman, carried along in the 
human wave, struck her shoe against the 


67 


Ellen Ashe 


child’s forehead so violently that instant death 
resulted. Ellen proposed an immediate de- 
parture for home, and Mrs. Scott gladly fol- 
lowed her to the car. 

An amusing little incident occurred. At 
one of the corners a Swedish woman entered 
the car with three large baskets and one small 
paper bag in her arms. When she had trav- 
eled a few blocks she started up suddenly from 
her seat, the baskets jangling to the floor, for 
they held tin-ware and dishes, and the burst- 
ing sack rolling apples in every direction. 
With a wild, horrified look out of the window 
she waved a pan that she had clutched in the 
fall of tin and shouted to the convulsed con- 
ductor: “Stop it! Stop it! I ’m mit de up 
car.” 

Most of the passengers were shaken with 
laughter, and, Ellen, flashing a glance of sym- 
pathy at the conductor, who did not seem able 
to control his merriment, helped the woman to 
pick up her scattered kitchen necessities. As 
the bewildered foreigner had fairly reached the 
door, a sudden jerking of the car caused her 
to grasp at the arm of a woman who sat next 
to Ellen. She drew angrily away. “Such 
scenes could be prevented,” she said to Ellen, 
who looked at her in amused wonder. 


68 


Among the Stores 


Miss Dearborn was awaiting them, and a 
delicious dinner was steaming on the pretty- 
little table when they arrived at their apart- 
ment. 

Ellen begged of them permission to read her 
letter, and as she read her face flushed deeply. 
Handing the note to Mrs. Scott, she said 
briefly: ^^Even in a great, busy city like Chi- 
cago the feeling of helpfulness is very strong. 
I ordered a few flowers sent to the county hos- 
pital — my school children in Quinley are re- 
sponsible for them, for I shall never forget 
how their little message of affection brightened 
one of my ^gray’ days — and asked the hospital 
authorities to send me the name of a pa- 
tient in the children’s ward. This letter is 
from the florist’s clerk, and I shall answer it 
at once.” 

Mrs. Scott read the letter with spirit: 

^^Dear Madam: I took the liberty of read- 
ing the letter you inclosed, as you said you 
knew no one in the hospital. And it was such 
a lovely little note that I wanted to help, too; 
so I added a box of roses and a few tiny potted 
plants. At any time in the future you may 
have our best values.” 

The business card of a State Street florist 
was inclosed, with ^Tred Montgomery, clerk,” 
written across it. 


69 


Ellen Ashe 


Mrs. Scott sang very pleasingly, and as 
Doctor Lonsdale was fond of music, she was 
prevailed upon to sing for him, after the little 
dinner was over, some of the old songs that 
will never lose their charm. 


TO 





Aunt Ellen's Christmas Letter 


CHAPTER XI. 

Aunt Ellen'^s Christmas Letter to Mildred. 

Once upon a time I knew a little girl who 
owned a pretty red dress. This dress was red 
and white, and when you looked at her you 
thought there couldnT be anything that could 
make her look prettier or sweeter. But there 
was; and once Santa Claus had a thought. 
He wrote secretly to his ambassador to Quin- 
ley and said to him, wish you would find 
out how a certain little girl on Clifton Avenue 
is looking.^’ The ambassador reported that 
she was a very good and pretty child, but that 
she could he made better and prettier, as all 
little girls may be. 

Santa Claus began to think. He said, “I 
shall talk with Prince Marshall Eield about 
it.” 

Prince Marshall Field called all of his peo- 
ple together, and said to them, ^^Disperse, you 
quick ones, and search through all my king- 
dom for the prettiest and brightest new dress 
for the little Quinley heiress.” You dl have to 
wait until the end of the story to know what 
that means — to be an heiress. 


71 


Ellen Ashe 


Now, whether they were rewarded in their 
search remains for the little heiress herself to 
say; but Santa Claus, although he loves to 
see you happy, has other little girls to make 
happy, too. So he thought about you in this 
way: would love to see all of my little 

people as happy as Mildred Kiel is, and I be- 
lieve that if I ask her, she will do this for me, 
because I have already given her much. There 
is a pale little girl over on the West Side of 
Chicago, the kingdom of Prince Marshall 
Field, who has been very, very sick, and she is 
just now growing strong enough to sit by her 
window and watch the other children on the 
street playing. Her window is not like Mil- 
dred Kiel’s, though, and I shall have to tell 
Mildred about it, so that she will understand 
how this litle girl lives. 

^^Her house is on a narrow, crooked, dirty 
street, and the other houses press so closely 
against hers that if Moxy — that ’s the little 
girl’s name — should reach her hands out of 
the window, she and her little neighbor could 
make a chair with their hands, just like the 
one Mildred likes to have her mamma and 
Aunt Ellen carry her about in. Just think 
how close they must live! Then it ’s always 
smoky, and the air doesn’t smell like the air in 
Mildred’s yard does, when the wind blows the 


72 


Aunt Ellen's Christmas Letter 


rose-bushes away from each other. Moxy is 
a happy little girl, though. She is pretty, too, 
and her mamma told me that she dropped 
down flowers that people sent her to the other 
children in the alley, because, really and truly, 
this little girl lives in an alley.’’ 

Santa Claus had to stop here and answer 
a telephone message. A boy complained that 
his knife had only two blades, and Willie’s 
across the street had four, and he wanted one 
with four blades. What do you think Santa 
Claus answered? Why, nothing at all. He 
went right on planning for you and other little 
boys and girls who are grateful for what he 
gives them. He loves to heap his gifts on 
children who are thankful for little gifts. 

Moxy used to cry, her mother told Santa 
Claus, every day, not because she was angry, 
but because the pain in her back was so sharp, 
and for a long time the doctor couldn’t help 
her. 

People went to see her, not because they 
could cure her, but they could leave things to 
make her forget her back while it was cur- 
ing. But now she is getting well; and can’t 
you just shut your eyes tight and fairly see 
her on Christmas morning when — but I for- 
got ! I haven’t told you what it was that 
Santa Claus asked you to do. Just this — send 


Ellen Ashe 


Moxy your old red dress, and let her keep it for 
hers. See if we can’t pretend, as you say, that 
we ’re there when she opens her eyes. 

Her room is not like yours, and it isn’t all 
hers, for there are six sisters who sleep in it 
too. They have narrow little — well, you 
couldn’t call them beds, and it ’s cold, oh, so 
cold, for there ’s air coming in from all sides, 
and there isn’t any stove to warm it. 

Moxy doesn’t jump up like you do, and dance 
all over the room. She couldn’t if she tried, 
because her back is weak yet and there isn’t 
room for her to dance. But when she finds 
your dress — oh ! then she can dance, after 
all. She forgets all about her back, and her 
sleepy little sisters, and dances and skips, and 
she doesn’t seem to know that she is upset- 
ting the other little girls over against the wall. 

Ho you ever remember looking at the moon, 
when it shines in your window at night and 
draws pretty figures on the carpet? Well, 
Moxy’s face looked just like that — round and 
shining; and the moon, you know, lights up 
everything in the room and makes the chairs 
and the walls look white and shining, too; 
and Moxy’s face, too, was like that. Every- 
body’s face in the house, like the room bright- 
ens in the moonlight, reflected the brightness 
and pretty smiles of Moxy. 


74 


Aunt Ellen's Chi'istmas Letter 


Dear little Mildred Kiel, my Mildred, you 
can make this little pretending into a doing it 
actually. IsnH it nice to pretend that we are 
fairies, and can go about waving our wands 
and changing people’s faces into what we 
please to make them? And we can be fairies, 
you and I, and our kingdom shall be Chicago. 

Kow, little cousin, do you know what it 
means to be an heiress ? 


Y5 
















New Friends 


CHAPTEK XII. 

Xew Friends. 

At the end of the fifth month in her new 
home, Ellen was a happy, contented, and busy 
student, not only of the books that were be- 
coming more and more precious to her, but of 
the life of the most interesting city in the 
world to the student of human nature in all 
its phases. 

Chicago is Paris and London and New York 
comfortably dropped between the great lake 
that King Edward’s tenants run across when 
they wish to borrow half a dozen steam en- 
gines and lake boats, to say nothing of a few 
million pounds of beef and pork occasionally, 
and the waving prairie that furnishes the fu- 
ture greatest American city with a roomy back 
yard to grow in. 

Dear Chicago, with your busy, helpful hand 
ever ready to lead the sorrowful, the despair- 
ing, the cast aside of every nation up the 
stairs of reviving interest into the pilot-house 
of actual vision of the new sea of possibility! 
May the abuses of newly-awakened power drop 
away from your glorious heart of universality 1 


77 


Ellen Ashe 


But we must return to Ellen. She had writ- 
ten a little story, and, after a week’s polishing 
and rewriting it, carried it to the office 
of a great newspaper. The young man who 
met her responded to her request to see the 
editor that he was quite busy. Could he be 
of assistance to her? Ellen thanked him, but 
said that she must see the editor. 

The young man grew impatient. “Editor 
Clarke sees few people. You see, it would be 
impossible. But if I,” he began. 

Ellen interrupted him coldly. “Yes, I un- 
derstand; but this is different, and I must see 
him. I will wait,” and she sat down calmly 
on the visitors’ bench and wrote rapidly on a 
card. 

The secretary retired. In a few minutes he 
returned, and there was a new respect and a 
great deal of curiosity in his manner as he 
said, “Editor Clarke will see you, but just now 
he is busy.” 

Ellen w^aited, while the hands of the office 
clock pointed to nine, half past, ten, and were 
just swinging to another quarter of an hour 
mark when the secretary appeared and carried 
Ellen’s card into the private office of the edi- 
tor of the Overland. A minute later she was 
presented to the great man of whom she had 
read and heard so much. He was sitting at 


78 


New Friends 


his desk, but he rose as Ellen entered the 
office, and, after a slight bow, waited for her 
to speak. 

Ellen met his eye fearlessly during her 
brief recital of her business with him. The 
famous editor listened, but as she talked he 
studied her closely, and not a movement es- 
caped his eagle eye as he sat, his powerful 
shoulders braced against his revolving chair. 
Looking thoughtfully at a baby’s picture rest- 
ing against the books on his desk, he said, 
‘^So you have decided that you will become a 
journalist?” 

Ellen answered him slowly. ^^No, I think 
not. I am sure that I should fail in journal- 
ism as a profession; but I hope to become a 
short story writer,” she added, watching his 
face as he gave an order to some one who had 
called to him over the telephone. He con- 
cluded his conversation with one of his man- 
agers, and then turned again to Ellen. ^^Let 
me tell you a little story,” he began, looking 
down on the tiny figures that swarmed in the 
street. Toy street cars crawled around cor- 
ners where infant newsboys cried the morning 
press. 

As he talked his eyes never left the face of 
the young woman, who felt that had she made 
the slightest move that had indicated a bold or 


79 


Ellen Ashe 


adventurous character he had dismissed her 
without a minute^s warning. But Ellen was 
just her true, natural self, and very much in 
earnest in this first step toward success, she 
hoped, in her chosen work. 

The story went on, and Ellen could find no 
connection in it with her business at the office ; 
but finally, with a quick application to her un- 
usual entrance into his presence, the great 
man rose and held out his hand, in half- 
amused but very respectful manner. 

“Now I will read your story,’’ he said, and 
Ellen’s heart beat high with hope. At least, 
she had seen him, talked with him, and he was 
going to read her story. 

He read it through, and when he had fin- 
ished he laid the sheets down on his desk and 
sat looking at them. “Who is your favorite 
poet?” he asked, abruptly turning to her. 

“Wordsworth,” she answered promptly, be- 
coming a little anxious over the result of the 
reading. 

“And your author?” he continued, pushing 
the papers away and leaning back in his chair 
again. 

“Emerson,” and Ellen’s face brightened, as 
it always did when she referred to the great 
thinker. 

“Good ! No better ones could be selected ; and 


80 


New Friends 


now, as to this little story ; you may not care to 
hear what I am going to say, but you will 
thank me some day for it,” and Editor Clarke 
looked at her in the way of a man who has a 
disagreeable duty to perform, but who will 
perform it at a cost to his time. 

Ellen said, so genuinely that he could not 
doubt that a very earnest young woman was 
speaking, “The criticism of a great man, 
though unfavorable to present success, is a 
hope of the future.” 

The editor looked pleased, though he ignored 
the personal compliment in her remark and 
went on : “The literary hill is an acknowledged 
hard one to climb, though few know how hard. 
Only those who have climbed can tell of the 
many, many backward slips, or the long periods 
of standing, between the little upward steps. 
I am not speaking now of journalism. Given 
the necessary talent, the journalist can be 
made. The writer is born and made. And 
now. Miss Ashe,” he continued, more rapidly, 
“my advice to you is, don’t write any more 
short stories of fiction, at least for the present. 
Go home and read, read, read; but don’t read 
fiction. Eead literature, and only the best lit- 
erature. Study the style of all, but don’t imi- 
tate; and don’t forget that the simplicity in 
phrasing and the spontaneity of expression 


6 


81 


Ellen Ashe 


that so charm, and appear to the casual reader 
natural, are the result of long hours of study 
and the closest and most taxing study the 
mind can be brought to ; for the trained writer 
values his words above price, and weighs them 
in gold.” 

He paused a moment and looked at Ellen, 
and there was a softened look in his keen eyes. 

believe that you will become a writer of the 
last class I named a moment ago ; but it means 
the hardest work for you.” 

Ellen’s little movement of surprise and hope 
thanked him better than if she had spoken in 
words, and he continued: “I will accept this 
story and pay you for it.” 

The little gesture of repulsion at his men- 
tion of the financial success in her venture did 
not escape the man who needed but a minute’s 
conversation with a young woman to know her 
ideals of life. He glanced at his watch. 

Although it is full of weaknesses in similes 
and style, there is power in it. I am going to 
write you a letter of introduction to a well- 
known and greatly-revered American writer 
who just now is visiting in Chicago. She has 
lived to see her influence in thousands of 
homes, and as long as her pen is active the 
country is made better by her stories.” 

When Ellen left the office, her few words of 


82 


New Friends 


gratitude were so unmistakably genuine that 
the great editor accepted them in a like spirit. 
She walked home, for it would have been im- 
possible to have breathed the air of the car. 
All of Chicago seemed crowded to this young 
aspirant for literary honors, wearing her first 
bay wreath. It was a very small one, to be 
sure, but Ellen had learned that the gates that 
open into the great fields of usefulness are so 
small that many people pass them hy, not even 
seeing them. • Others, thinking that the new 
ground is so little broader than the one in 
which they work, do not care to leave their own 
little ground of surety for the new one of 
greater uncertainty. But there are those who 
see, and open, and even break the bars that 
would keep out the earnest seeker of richer 
rewards of his toil; and these are the world’s 
most useful men and women. 

Ellen had been directed to call at the home 
of one of the less widely known merchants of 
the city, a distance of twelve miles across the 
river, and present her letter to the famous and 
loved writer whom she had always admired. 
She was received by a servant, and invited into 
a small but tastefully furnished drawing- 
room. She explained in a few words the 
object of her call, and she was admitted with- 
out further questioning. The servant retired. 


83 


Ellen Ashe 


and Ellen waited, wondering how this woman, 
who had such power to touch the hearts as well 
as sway the intellects of thousands, would look. 
She was soon given an opportunity to know, 
for a light step announced the entrance of Mrs. 
Abbot into the room. After a little introduc- 
tory conversation, during which she read Edi- 
tor Clarke’s letter, she sat down by the window 
and began to talk about Editor Clarke, telling 
a lively little story of his journalistic days. 

Ellen listened and looked, making a little 
mental picture of her that she meant to keep. 
This woman, whose pen was indeed mightier 
than the sword, was small and very stout. Her 
hair was white and brushed plainly away from 
her face. Her eyes were gray, and if she was 
thoroughly interested in her subject, deepened 
to black. She had large but shapely hands 
and a sunshiny smile that had made her fa- 
mous as a hospital nurse before she became 
famous as a writer. 

There was no mention of her books until 
Ellen, finding it growing a little late for a 
courteous call, told Mrs. Abbot how much she 
had enjoyed her last serial story. 

The author laughed. “You will not mind 
my laughing? But, do you know, that story 
is a never-ending amusement to me. Shall I 
tell you why?” and Ellen wondered if this was 


84 


New Friends 


the woman who could write so realistically of 
the tragedies of New York’s lower life and its 
sufferings. 

“A very young and ambitious reporter, 
rather too apt to take his mission seriously, 
called to see me soon after the publication of 
that serial in book form. I was very busy on 
that day, as I was doing my best to finish a 
dress I was sewing on for my sister; and per- 
haps if he had called at a later hour it would 
not have so interfered with my work. I usually 
work in my kitchen or the other rooms until 
nine or ten, and then I am ready for my writ- 
ing. He insisted on seeing me, and I finally 
consented to allow him a very short fifteen 
minutes. I shall never forget the shocked, 
pained, and really horrified expression in his 
face when I answered the last of the twenty- 
two questions he proposed. He inquired at 
just what hour of the day or night my mental 
powers were strongest; and did I ever find the 
atmosphere of my thoughts clouded by un- 
pleasant sights or sounds? If I had been less 
busy, I would have suggested that probably 
he could judge of the effect by watching for 
the result of his very exaggerated manner. But 
I answered him truthfully that my greatest 
thoughts and my romances usually crystallized 
while I was washing the breakfast dishes. The 


85 


Ellen Ashe 


poor boy escaped at once, and I was half sorry 
that I had said it, he looked so disappointed,” 
and Mrs. Abbot laughed long and heartily at 
the recollection of the discomfited youth. 

Ellen joined her, enjoying every minute in 
the society of this natural, unspoiled woman 
whose fame was so great. 

“Then there are the school-girl writers,” 
continued the author. “One came to see me 
once, and asked if I would write the closing 
chapters of ^Lady Ivy Irene’s Revenge.’ She 
didn’t want it known,, of course; but she had 
mixed a duel and a fire so terribly that her 
poor heroine was present at both places simul- 
taneously.” 

Ellen rose at last very regretfully. 

Mrs. Abbot left the room quickly and re- 
turned carrying a huge bunch of chrysanthe- 
mums. Putting them into Ellen’s hands, she 
said in her charming hostess manner again, 
“You didn’t ask me for my autograph, and this 
is an expression of my appreciation.” 

When Ellen left the house, at the end of a 
very momentous hour in her life, she had 
learned more about the real life of a truly 
great woman than she had in the hours of 
study of the lives of famous men and women 
in her school-days. 


86 


Editor Clarice's Assistant 


CHx\PTER XIII. 

Editor Clarke's Assistant. 

Miss Dearborn held out a letter to Ellen 
when she returned, one day, from an afternoon 
walk. She was not curious, but she was a little 
interested in this letter, for the name of one 
of the great newspaper firms was printed on 
the envelope. Ellen broke the seal. ‘^Editor 
Clarke of the Overland asks me to call at the 
office to-morrow afternoon,” she said, and Miss 
Dearborn became interested again in her 
household duties. 

As the hand of the clock poised before the 
hour designated in the letter, Ellen again pre- 
sented her card to the secretary to the editor 
of the Overland, and this time was at once ad- 
mitted into the private editorial office. Editor 
Clarke was called away immediately after 
lunch, but would she wait, perhaps half an 
hour ? apologized a young man whom Ellen had 
not seen on the day of her first visit to the 
office. It was quite expected that she wait, 
and Ellen had no intention of doing anything 
else. 


87 


Ellen Ashe 


The young man was assistant editor of the 
great paper. He was very tall, and his 
shoulders were broad and athletic. His eyes, 
like his chief’s, were keen and full of the fire 
that great thoughts kindle. His handsome 
mouth and chin were strong but finely molded ; 
and a somewhat bronzed appearance of his face 
bore out the impression that the shoulders be- 
longed to a man who lived out of doors, despite 
his profession. He wrote a page, and then, 
throwing down his pen, wheeled in his chair. 
^‘The strikers are not far off to-day,” he re- 
marked as shouts and the sound of rioting 
came faintly into the rooms. 

Ellen shuddered a little. She had not fol- 
lowed the progress of the strike through the 
columns of the papers, as long ago she had 
decided that she could not read of such things 
and hope to read literature with delicacy of 
interpretation. Oh, to read with the ulterior 
purpose of solving these vital labor questions, 
that was another matter! But the habit of 
picking up a newspaper and following with in- 
terest the stories of fires, and strikes, and 
bloodshed she would not allow herself to cul- 
tivate. 

A little conversation on strikes and their 
effect on commercial life was well on into a 
little enjoyable talk when Editor Clarke re- 


S8 


Editor Clarke’s Assistant 


turned. His assistant left the room, and the 
editor requested Ellen to give the story of her 
visit to the author, who was his friend. She 
gave her impression of the character of the 
writer. 

^^You cannot be too enthusiastic in your 
praise of her. She is always so, although she 
has known many a hard struggle in her climb 
to fame. But, now, will you do a little work 
for us for a month or so in the department 
where we employ only young women he 
asked, in his curt business tone. 

Ellen was not completely surprised, and her 
answer was the result of long study and dis- 
cussion with herself — what course she should 
pursue to realize her cherished purpose, to be- 
come a writer. She had no taste for office 
work or newspaper writing. She desired more 
than anything else freedom to read and study 
the great books she had so sadly neglected in 
her school-days, even in her teaching years. 
So she declined the position Editor Clarke of- 
fered to her, and gave her reason 

She did not know it at the time, but the edi- 
tor, after she had left his office, dispatched a 
note to Mrs. Abbot, asking her to invite Ellen 
to a little dinner she was giving for a few of 
the literary people of Chicago. His wife was 
a writer of short stories for children, and he 


89 


Ellen Ashe 


decided that Ellen would be helped by a meet- 
ing with her. 

Some distinguished guests were entertained 
at the modest but artistic home of Mr. Cordon 
the merchant. Mrs. Abbot was his wife^s 
cousin, and visited at their home while she 
was resident in the city. 

Ellen thought it best, since she could not 
appear in an expensive dinner costume, to 
adopt the other extreme; so she wore a per- 
fectly simple white India linen gown that she 
bought especially, however, for the occasion. 
She rode across the city alone in a carriage, 
but she had taken the precaution to select 
her cabman with some care on the preceding 
day. 

The dinner was the happiest event in Ellen’s 
life. Seated at the table were some of the 
great thinkers both of this country and of 
England; but there was such an absence of 
ostentation, and so much real greatness in 
evidence during the whole course of the even- 
ing, that Ellen realized at last what it seems to 
require years to teach many — that true great- 
ness needs no protection. It is above the form 
and ceremony of conventionalism, and does 
not tremble within its shielding folds. 

Editor Clark’s wife was a woman of ani- 
m.ated and sprightly manners, and yet it could 


90 


Editor Clarice's Assistant 


not be said of her that she “put them on and 
off,” for her manner, or “the expression of her 
personality,” as some one has called behavior, 
was distinctive in its true worth. 

Mrs. Cordon presented Editor Clarke’s as- 
sistant to Ellen, and they permitted the in- 
troduction with no recognition of their earlier 
meeting in the office of the Overland- He took 
Ellen in to dinner, and she learned for the 
first time that he was a Catholic, for his quiet 
refusal of the meats caused a little lecture to 
be given by his chief on the dangers of a grow- 
ing weakness in memory. “You declared, Kil- 
bourne, that you never accepted an invitation 
to a Friday dinner,” he said in a low tone to 
his young assistant, who sat next to him at the 
table. 

Ellen was talking with Mrs. Abbot, but Mrs. 
Clarke had heard her husband’s remark, and, 
throwing a look of inimitable understanding 
at the young journalist, she said innocently, 
“But that was long, long ago.” 

Mr. Kilbourne ate his fruit gravely, but 
there was an indefinable smile on his lips. 
When Ellen turned again toward him there 
was a trace of pink in her cheeks and she was 
gayer than she had been earlier in the evening. 

From the earliest hour of their conversa- 
tion Ellen and Editor Kilbourne “were in tune. 


91 


Ellen Ashe 


and, underneath, they both knew it”; and it 
was subtly acknowledged by each that their 
words surfaced a strong, deep underflow of 
like to like. 

Later in the evening she found an oppor- 
tunity for a little talk with Lord Howard, the 
great English scientist. His wife was the 
daughter of a United States Senator, and was 
a beautiful woman, but she seemed little inter- 
ested in the world of science in which her hus- 
band ruled by his thought. Lord Howard de- 
clared his intention to tour eastern India, in 
order to search for a new plant that was proved 
to prevent the dread swamp fever. ^^My wife 
will go, because she is interested in their rugs 
and laces,” he added, looking up at her as she 
stood by him. He was seated with Ellen on 
the great oak window-seat that curved the wall. 

Lady Howard replied with girlish eagerness 
as she turned toward them. do so long to 
see their lovely silks and jewels. Don’t you 
love Oriental stuff?” she asked of Ellen, her 
wide-open, frank eyes alight with enthusiasm. 

^^Yes, indeed; and you may be sure that they 
are genuine silks if you buy them in India,” 
Ellen answered, watching the light strike blue 
Are from the diamond ornament in Lady How- 
ard’s hair. 

Her ladyship greeted Mrs. Abbot warmly as 
92 


Editor Clarice's Assistant 


that lady passed the little group. She looked 
after the famous woman with reverence in her 
eyes. don’t see how she can write such 
wonderful stories. Think what she must 
know!” she said to her husband after Ellen 
and Editor Kilbourne began a little chat as 
they walked away together. 

^^Mrs. Abbot is a wonderful woman; but, 
my love, she is not you,” and Lord Howard’s 
emphasis of the pronoun convinced his wife of 
his willing submission to the fate that had 
placed his coronet upon her head. 

“Percy,” she said, in a little burst of affec- 
tion and confidence as they were driving to 
their hotel, “sometimes I think a great, wise 
man like you ought not to have married such 
a frivolous little thing as I ; but I can’t remem- 
ber those long scientific things, and who dis- 
covered them,” she confessed; but a very un- 
scientific answer assured her ladyship that she 
was of invaluable help in her husband’s scien- 
tific researches. 

Ellen left just after the Howards, and Mr. 
Kilbourne rode with her, as the hour was very 
late. 


93 









An Evening Walk 


CHAPTER XIV. 

An Evening Walk. 

A MONTH after Mrs. Abbot’s evening at 
home a very small but select club was organ- 
ized by that lady and Mr. Clarke, and Ellen 
was invited to become a member. Mrs. Abbot 
had decided to remain in Chicago for a year, 
and Ellen was now a frequent caller at her 
home. 

The club, of course, was literary in its pur- 
pose, and Mr. Kilbourne was president. But 
the ^^club” was a pretext for bringing together 
fortnightly people who were vitally interested 
in the literary movements of the day. 

Ellen was still a hard student, but she was 
developing her “future” as she had dreamed 
long ago, as a child. She received long letters 
from her cousin and sister, and she wrote 
often. She corresponded, however, regularly 
with Miss Aisles and Margaret Doe, who had 
been a friend of her childhood. 

In one of her letters to Miss Aisles she wrote 
describing one of Mrs. Abbot’s delightful even- 
ings. “I wish you could meet Mr. Kilbourne. 
We enjoyed a pleasant walk along the beach 


95 


Ellen Ashe 


the other evening. I believe I told you that 
he is a Catholic. It is growing a little inter- 
esting now to see who is to win in this long- 
continued but always new discussion — I won’t 
say of religion; that ’s too absurd — but of 
creeds. We seem to drift away from the sub- 
ject, but before we know it we are discussing 
it again, each more in earnest and more un- 
yielding than before.” 

Ellen sat before her window, one evening, 
in the darkening room. She liked to sit and 
watch the lighted carriages as they whirled 
along the avenue, and the street-cars as they 
flashed past the corner with their crowds of 
men and women seeking relaxation after their 
day’s work down in the city. To-night she 
was thinking deeply and recalling, word by 
word, her last long conversation with John 
Kilbourne. She had proposed this question 
to him : “How can you, a thinking man, recon- 
cile the confessional to your broad ideas on 
every other subject of thought? You teach 
children that the consequences of their wrong 
reach no further than the confessional door, 
when we see on every side the suffering that 
always follows disobedience either in the nat- 
ural or in the world of man’s law’s. Then, 
too, your worship is so closely conflned to 
words and song. Suppose, now,” she had said 


96 


An Evening W a I h 


as they sat along the beach watching the 
yachts that dotted the lake, ^^suppose I were to 
give you my picture, as a reminder that I 
existed. Suppose that I were being beaten to 
death in the room adjoining the one in which 
my picture hung. My cries would reach you, 
but you would still stand before my picture, 
too rapt in admiration to leave off gazing. 
Slowly, minute by minute, my life were ebb- 
ing away, and still you stood, lost in contem- 
plation of the image of myself ; and your 
great, magnificent cathedral is the room, and 
Chicago is dying without its doors.” 

He had listened quietly, and there was a note 
of pain in his voice when he answered her. 
^^Your argument is good; but people must wor- 
ship. I am speaking now of the great mass of 
people, people with a purpose in life and that 
purpose the supporting of their families and 
the earning of honest bread. These people 
have not time to think about these questions — 
they can only work on day by day and see the 
result of an idea after it is shown in a deed. 
If these people are made better by being held 
firmly to a center, instead — we are speaking 
now of the deepest principles and cannot con- 
sider ourselves — of a transient or violent faith, 
or, worse still, a conformity without heart to 
a creed without meaning, who shall say that 


7 


97 


Ellen Ashe 


the strength of my faith does not show greater 
than its weakness 

Ellen reflected a moment. “True,” she 
agreed to his criticism of the newer form of 
worship, “but if I need to remind you in words 
that I am a follower of Christ, my religion is 
worthless. I believe that in trouble or strife 
we are stronger because of the fact that the 
spirit of faith is within us. God to us is not 
so much a Being to fear as to serve. How? 
By ^acting our faith in our daily lives,’ so 
Lowell has said. 

“Mr. Kilbourne, explain to me, please, why 
you buy prayers,” she had commanded, after he 
had rescued a small boy’s war-boat from a 
dangerous shoal a foot in diameter. 

“I refuse to defend that,” he had replied, 
setting his lips firmly, and a quick color had 
mounted to his forehead. 

“And well you may. Our God is the God of 
love, and love will not be bought,” Ellen had 
replied, with a look that acknowledged his 
concession to truth. “He gives, always and 
ever. The sun, the moon, and the stars are 
his; and you partake of the warmth and the 
balm, and exult in the inspiration of these, his 
gifts. Are you unthankful? The glory of his 
messengers of love is undimmed.” 

Mr. Kilbourne had answered her: “Not long 


98 


An Evening Walk 


ago I heard your minister, Doctor Lincoln, 
talk on this subject — ‘Tests/ He was speak- 
ing to a mixed crowd, and many of the people 
who listened to him were laboring men. He 
said to them, ‘Is it not a comfort, you of heavy 
hearts and heavier burdens, to know that God 
has said the gold is tried in the furnace? 
Stand you the test of years firmly and with 
faith, and you shall evermore be blessed; but 
faint and complain, then he has said, too, the 
small vessel is for the silver. Which will you 
be, the gold or the silver of his workmanship?’ 
The men were fairly intelligent, and, I believe, 
fairly comprehended him; but he went on to 
say—” 

But he was not permitted to finish his 
sentence, for the small boy had waded be- 
yond his depth, and was with some difficulty 
brought back to land by Mr. Kilbourne, while 
Ellen had looked on in some anxiety, for a 
storm was brewing and the waves were tipped 
with foam. 

In some way the great prophetic Voice had 
whispered to each, during the walk home, of 
the coming parting of the ways; and Ellen 
sighed deeply when she rose, at last, and pre- 
pared for an evening’s reading of Buskin. 


99 


\ 

• > M 


A Decision and a Question 


CHAPTEE XV. 

A Decision and a Question. 

“ If once we choose belief, on all accounts 
We can’t be too decisive in our faith. 

— Browning. 

Eeligion was seldom discussed on the club 
evenings, as each was aware of the other mem- 
bers’ deep belief. 

Lord Howard believed in no personal God, 
or, as Ellen phrased it, “he believes in a cen- 
tral soul, such as Emerson believes to exist, but 
denies the existence of a God of prayer.” 

She said this to Mrs. Clarke one evening, 
and that lady remonstrated. “My dear Miss 
Ashe, Emerson’s essays are full of references 
to God,” she declared, and a little group 
formed about the two women. 

“But not to a God of prayer,” repeated 
Ellen. “Only a week ago I read this,” and 
Ellen quoted, “ ^The simplest person who in 
his integrity worships God becomes God.’ 
Emerson is my favorite author, but I shall be 
true to the faith of my soul, nevertheless,” she 
replied, smiling a little at the great English- 
man who had on several occasions attempted 
to destroy her faith. Lord Howard was a 


101 


Ellen Ashe 


scientist and a nobleman, but he knew how to 
throw into a sentence something very close to 
an insult in tone. 

‘A don’t see how you account for this Amer- 
ican genius, then. Right principles make right 
living, eh. Miss Ashe?” he said, curling his 
lip. 

“Emerson and men like you are born into 
the world to give to faith the strengthening 
element it needs. Your lives prove that even 
faith alone cannot make strong characters. 
There is a time, too, when it is cowardly to 
pray. It was never meant that we should lean 
on prayer,” responded Ellen, in tones as cut- 
ting as his own; but hers were sharpened on 
the edge of truth. 

“Then you agree. Miss Ashe, that one must 
be true to the faith of his soul ?” asked a quiet 
voice as the group gradually dissolved into 
couples and threes. The hand which Mr. Kil- 
bourne held out to her spoke an eloquent an- 
swer within the question; and as Ellen’s hand 
was held for an instant in the strong grasp of 
the man she so highly honored, she said, look- 
ing up into the handsome, noble face, “Thomas 
a Kempis, a Catholic, more directly influenced 
my thoughts of Christ than any living or dead 
man or woman.” 

Mrs. Abbot came up to them with a little re- 


102 


A Decision and a Question 

proof for failing to take an active part in a 
new discussion going on where another little 
group had formed. 

^^Shall we plan our boat excursion for this or 
next week she asked, and they made haste to 
join the others. 

Mr. Kilbourne announced in a half-official 
manner to the club that he would leave his 
duties as president in other hands soon, as he 
was preparing for an extended business trip to 
Europe in the interest of his paper. 

Mrs. Abbot waited until the little murmur 
of surprise and regret had subsided somewhat, 
and followed Mr. Kilbourne with the declara- 
tion of her purpose to return to Kew York, 
and her long-neglected pen. A publisher had 
demanded a new book, and she could not well 
refuse to produce it. 

So the evening was prolonged into a fare- 
well meeting of the members of the Inter- 
national Literary Society. 


103 








In Germany 


CHAPTER XVI. 

In Germany, 

Many a man and woman realizes a certain 
kind of success as the outgrowth of ability and 
diligence. Then a period is placed on his life- 
page, and the Spirit of Truth declares: Fur- 
ther than this ye may not go, unless ye wor- 
ship God in lowliness of spirit. As ye are 
humbled before God, so shall ye be exalted be- 
fore men. 

And now Ellen was given an opportunity to 
act the faith she had so bravely defended with 
her voice, for her lungs were seriously affected 
by the rough lake winds, and grave fears were 
beginning to disturb her peace. She found 
herself recalling Mr. Kilbourne’s quoted words 
of her own Doctor Lincoln, and she resolved 
to be the gold. A little letter from Mildred, 
written in a very shaky hand, came like a 
bright ray into her life, several months after 
her conversation with the young editor. She 
had begged of her mother permission to write 
to Ellen, and her mother had held the fat little 
hand, though the sentences were the child’s 
own. She wrote : 


105 


Ellen Ashe 


^^Dear Aunt Ellen: Sometimes I canH 
make my talking come. My pony is eating. 
Some time I ’ll get a waist that shivers like 
mother’s when she walks and the wind blows. 
I ’ve had my hair cut, and Susie calls me 
Tommy. I don’t like it. 

^^Mildred Kiel.^^ 

As Ellen held the letter lovingly a minute, 
an idea presented itself to her mind, and soon 
filled it to the exclusion of every other thought. 
Why not write a child’s book, and perhaps en- 
tertain other boys and girls as she had enter- 
tained little Mildred by writing her little 
scraps of poems and stories? Write it she did, 
and it became a popular book. 

A month or so after the success of her book 
was assured, Ellen stored her books away in 
Chicago, and, selecting from her little library 
only her Bible and some beautiful little cloudy- 
blue volumes of Shakespeare, she prepared for 
a European trip. She was accompanied on 
this voyage to the Europe she had for so many 
years longed to visit, although she was a true 
American, by a lifetime friend of the Ashe 
family, Miss Dean, a woman whom Ellen ad- 
mired to such an extent that no one presumed 
to discuss her faults in her presence. 

Ellen was not a lover of English scenery, as 
she preferred the wild natural beauty of her 


106 


In Germany 


own country. It must not be supposed that 
she had not seen much of her own land before 
this time. She had visited along the Pacific 
Coast in her childhood, had been in Canada 
and the northeastern section, and had crossed 
the border into Mexico; so that she was fairly 
familiar with the land of her birth. They 
spent but a week, therefore, in London, and 
only a few days in Paris. Ellen was eager to 
breathe freely of Germany’s forest-laden air. 

A month after their departure from Kew 
York the two Americans were cozily settled in 
a little fairy house that had been rented to 
them by a landowner who was leaving for a 
tour of America. This house peeped inquisi- 
tively into a fairy forest that stretched entic- 
ingly and mysteriously away into a maze of 
tangled distance. 

Ellen Ashe lived. Her lungs grew better 
and healed rapidly. After hours of physical 
exercise and practice in the open air she was 
able to expand them in breathing capacity far 
beyond the average limit. She was treated for 
her trouble by a physician whose blood was 
noble, but whose craving to be scientifically 
useful was too strong to permit of his leading 
the life of ease and luxury of his class. How- 
ever, he never allowed it to be forgotten that 
he was a nobleman. He attacked Ellen’s native 


107 


Ellen Ashe 


country fiercely. you Americans! You 

scramble and struggle up what you call the 
ladder of social success or social position. 
Bah! how it disgusts me to hear these people 
talking about old families and blood! They 
don^t know what blood is,” he said with scorn. 
^^These funny Americans!” and he shook a 
bottle threateningly at his imaginary second 
cousins across the sea. 

Ellen defended her countrymen with vigor. 
^^But you are too broad in your use of the 
word. You are unjust to include the great 
middle class, and they are the true Ameri- 
cans,” she protested, enjoying this man’s re- 
fusal to be polite when his conviction forced 
expression of itself. 

He turned on her quickly. “And you lit- 
erary men and women! You, with your poor 
little mind, imagine that you can tell people 
how to think. People don’t need to be told 
how to think. Teach them how to eat and 
they ’ll think right.” He was off now on his 
cherished theory of the right life, and Ellen 
resigned herself to listen to a lecture on 
health. “Oh, your writers! What nonsense 
they all write ! Your Milton and your Dante — 
dreamers, all of them. I tell you, people need 
to eat good, fresh vegetables, well cooked, one 
at a meal, no mixture, plenty of fruit, drink 


108 


In Germany 


no coffee, no tea, and take plenty of exercise 
in the air. One good square meal is all they 
need, too, each day. Then they are ready to 
think.” 

Ellen owed her life to this doctor, who had 
exercised the strictest discipline in his treat- 
ment of her case. She was allowed no break- 
fast, unless a few grapes or an apple consti- 
tuted it, but she was sent for a long walk 
through the forest, or along the country roads. 
She ate little meat, and no pastry of any kind ; 
and for her supper she was given two slices of 
toast, nicely browned, and all of the honey she 
cared to eat with it. The doctor had ordered 
a bonfire of her writing material, so that she 
wrote only letters, and few of those. The 
sharp curve in her shoulders gradually fiat- 
tened into a straight, strong back, the hollow 
chest developed into fullness, and her spring- 
ing step and bright eyes gladdened the eyes of 
anxious Miss Dean, who daily examined the 
patient to see what progress she had made. 
She forced Ellen to take her breathing exer- 
cises in her presence, so that she might know 
they were well done. 

Miss Ashe was very much of a pupil during 
those early days in Germany, and could not 
quite say that her time was her own. But she 
was recovering her health, and she was grate- 


109 


Ellen ^she 


ful indeed to the great physician for his never- 
relaxed and hard rules, but the kindest that he 
could have invented. 

The doctor greeted her one day with the an- 
nouncement that the Baron Kaff would spend 
a month or so with his daughters in his forest 
villa, situated on the edge of the great wald, 
and across it from Ellen’s abode. ^^The baron 
spends many months here,” he said, folding 
the letter and returning it to the envelope. 

. One day, soon after the conversation with 
the doctor, Ellen took the writing-case that 
Miss Aisles had so daintily made for her in 
leather, and with three or four extra pencils 
slipped into it, prepared for an ideal afternoon 
in the forest. The doctor had granted her per- 
mission to write a little each day now, as she 
was so nearly ready for his dismissal. She 
sat on her favorite moss seat, leaning her 
head back against the friendly giant that 
dropped down green punctuation on her white 
paper. She breathed long and deep for sev- 
eral minutes. Then she fell to work, and was 
lifting the head of a dying soldier to put a 
cup of water to his lips, and the blazing sun of 
Africa was beating down upon her, when, 
raising her head suddenly, she beheld a 
stranger regarding her at some distance away. 
Ellen lowered her eyes to her paper again, and 


110 


In Germany 


went on with her writing. She knew him in- 
stantly, for the doctor’s wife had described the 
Baron Kaff only a few days before. As he 
passed Ellen on his way through the forest, he 
lifted his cap with the courtesy so marked in 
the true German. Ellen slightly inclined her 
head and finished her story, writing rapidly, 
as the shadows were beginning to steal away 
the little ribbons of light that fluttered down 
through the trees and fell at her feet. 


Ill 



Baron Kaff 


CHAPTER XYII. 

Baron Kaff. 

A FURIOUS storm swept over the great forest, 
.and hundreds of trees were torn from the 
proud position that had been theirs for a cen- 
tury and thrown in confused cross-barriers 
to the march of the traveler who followed the 
winding path in its unexpected bends and 
plunges into darkness and light. The Baron 
Kaff uttered an exclamation of regret at the 
ruin of the grand old guardians of Germany’s 
romance. 

^Tapa, what a pity! And there is my own 
darling, Sir Walter Scott, down,” and a child 
of ten broke away from her father’s hand and 
filled her arms with branches of velvety leaves. 
“But, papa, I ’m sure that some people will be 
glad, and that ’s the peasants,” she said, look- 
ing up into his face with a dazzling child- 
smile. 

“Do they allow the peasants these trees?” 
asked the elder girl, who was five years her 
sister’s senior. 

“I believe they do,” replied her father, re- 
moving an immense branch from the path. 


8 


113 


Ellen Ashe 


The little party made their way slowly 
through the forest, and when they arrived at 
Doctor Von Burg’s door they had been an hour 
longer than it usually required to cross the 
wald. 

Ellen was calling at the house when the 
baron and his daughters arrived at the little 
cottage. Doctor Von Burg’s real home was in 
a little principality several duchies removed 
from his cottage at Waldmar. Ellen had seen 
the picture of his ancestral castle and its fa- 
mous picture gallery. 

An interval of silence that grew into a 
most embarrassing minute to Ellen followed 
the entrance of the baron and his daughters 
into the little reception-room. Frau Von Burg 
was painfully confused, and the doctor was in 
the village. 

Ellen waited for a presentation of some sort 
to take place, and, none coming, she prepared 
to leave the room, but was prevented by the 
baron, who stepped aside so that he stood 
slightly barring her passage through the door- 
way. ‘T am honored at meeting Miss Ashe?” 
he inquired in so reverent a tone and with so 
courtly a bending of his head that Ellen could 
not refuse to acknowledge his address. 

^^Baron Kaff, I am sure,” she replied, 
haughtily, a dangerous light in her eyes. 


114 


Baron Kaff 


The baron bowed again. ‘^And now may I 
present to you Fraulein Alexandra?” and a 
tiny flickering of her eyelids and a scarcely- 
perceptible lifting of her gaze to Ellen’s face, 
left her in no doubt that the younger girl, at 
least, was not the daughter named. 

^^Fraulein Elizabeth may perhaps remain 
quiet long enough to be acknowledged as my 
daughter,” continued the baron as the little 
girl came up to him and half-shyly held out 
her hand to Ellen. With a quick rush of emo- 
tion Ellen took it in hers, and the child, look- 
ing frankly up into her face, said, “Miss Ashe, 
you write, don’t you? The doctor told me 
about you. Papa laughs at me, but I write 
stories, too,” she explained, throwing a daring 
smile at him over her shoulder. 

Ellen’s reserve was not proof against this 
unexpected attack, and she remained a while 
talking with the baron and his daughter Eliz- 
abeth. Fraulein Alexandra had retired into 
another room with a book, and Ellen did not 
see her again before she left the cottage. 

She was annoyed at an unexpected meeting 
with Frau Von Burg as she was taking her 
early walk among the trees, a few days after 
the remarkable call. Ellen could not under- 
stand the woman’s very unusual manner on 
the day of her last visit to her home, for she 


115 


Ellen Ashe 


was of noble blood, too, and had never dis- 
played the slightest ignorance of social custom 
before that time. 

She greeted Ellen eagerly. “I came to see 
you. Miss Ashe. Will you not come to our lit- 
tle evening, so friendly?” she asked, with a 
pleading look in her kind eyes. 

Ellen relented a little. Erau Von Burg had 
been very kind and helpful during her first ill- 
ness, when they found it necessary to sum- 
mon medical aid. 

^^Do you come. We are not asking, only in 
respect to the baron, who is a neighbor,” she 
begged so earnestly that Ellen left her with the 
promise given to be a guest at the cottage 
again. 

During the evening ^fin respect to him,” 
Baron Kaff said to Ellen^ ^^Miss Ashe, I am 
going to ask of you a favor of your most val- 
uable time. My daughter Elizabeth has de- 
veloped an interest in story-writing that 
amounts to a mania. If I may ask of you 
permission to let her read one of her stories to 
you, she will be the happiest little girl in all 
Germany,” he laughed, but waited for Ellen’s 
reply. 

She granted it readily, for she was begin- 
ning to love the child. Always fond of study- 
ing the various types of childhood, she found 


116 


Baron Kaff 


this little German lady of high degree a very 
interesting study indeed. As for the elder 
daughter, Ellen and she were so far removed in 
temperament that it was hard to find even a 
casual ground of understanding upon which 
they could meet. Fraulein Alexandra’s was 
one of the natures that know only the bright, 
snowy heights, where no storm of strong or 
deep feeling ever disturbs the equa-calm of 
perfect approval of life and its advantages. 

A week later Ellen received the little poet in 
her green ^‘drawing-room,” and the real and 
the play author wandered through the great 
cool halls of this mansion of nature and grew 
to be very good friends as the afternoon light 
faded in the west. The great teacher. Art, had 
stood above her children and joined the hands 
of her older and her younger pupil; for Art 
knows no age. 


117 

















Kerzdorf 


CHAPTEE XVIII. 

Kerzdorf. 

“ The love of all 

Is but a small thing to the love of one.” 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning^ 
in ^'"Aurora Leigh.' ^ 

“Baron Kaff^ you cannot know the real na- 
ture of the woman you have so honored by ask- 
ing her to become your wife. Just three 
months ago you met — I called at Dr. Von 
Burg’s,” corrected Ellen, quickly, and then 
paused in some confusion, for the baron’s 
smile was a little puzzling. 

They were in Kerzdorf, along the Ehine, 
and the golden moonlight lay on the dark blue 
waters of the artists’ theme. So many poets 
have sung of it, and so many painters have 
pictured it, that we will not attempt to enrich 
the already full praise of the dream-river. Dr. 
Von Burg and his wife were entertaining 
Ellen and Miss Dean at their own home, in 
the principality of Kerzdorf. Baron Kaff was 
at the castle on this evening, the first of the 
ten days Ellen was to be a guest of Erau Von 
Burg. They were walking in the garden, close 
by the old wall that sloped down to the rippling 


119 


Ellen Ashe 


little waves, plashing against it so musically. 
Rose vines trailed their graceful lengths along 
the water’s surface and climbed to throw vel- 
vet fire among the rich green branches of a 
tree that bent to greet them. 

Ellen touched the dull gold heart of one 
crimson blossom with a gentle little shake of 
the vine. The petals fell in a shower of flame, 
leaving the golden center. ^^So it is, and so it 
shall be ! The petals fade and drop away, but 
the heart is firm — and pure,” she said, softly, 
turning to the baron, who was watching her 
as he stood close to the water’s edge, where the 
wall dipped into a tiny valley. 

^^And I am waiting,” he murmured, walking 
slowly toward her as she stood a little above 
him on the slope. 

Oh, you moon, you roses, you Rhine of won- 
drous beauty! And yonder, high against the 
blackened blue of the night sky rises the an- 
cient tower of countless generations, flashing 
and glittering in the moonlight. It is you, si- 
lent voices of destiny that shall say, Ellen 
Ashe or — Baroness Kaff ? 

****** 

In the famous gallery in the Castle Inglo- 
stadt hung a picture before which Ellen 
paused, first in surprise, then in complete be- 
wilderment. The baron. Dr. Yon Burg, — the 
120 


Kerzdorf 


Count Eosheim, — and the countess, with Ellen 
and Miss Dean who followed with the baron’s 
daughters, were inspecting the gallery on the 
afternoon before Ellen’s departure from Kerz- 
dorf. 

The picture was a portrait of the baron, and 
it occupied a central position; but it was the 
picture of a man in the robes of state, for on 
his head rested a circlet of jewels. Ellen stood 
before it with cheeks a little less white than 
the marble against which she placed her hand 
for support. 

The Count Von Eosheim, not the doctor she 
had known so long as her stern teacher of the 
laws of health, with a quick, reverent move- 
ment dropped on his knee a moment before the 
Baron Kaff, who, with firmly-set lips but smil- 
ing eyes was looking at Ellen. ^^Your High- 
ness, may I present Miss Ashe?” asked the 
count, after an interval of silence so intense 
that the rustle of the trees, far below, came 
distinctly into the room. 

^^You may,” replied the Baron, quietly, and 
Count Eosheim, bowing low first before the 
Baron, then to Ellen, said in even, distinct 
tones, ^^His Eoyal Highness, the Prince of 
Kerzdorf, has requested that I present Miss 
Ashe to him.” 

Ellen was an American, and American 
121 


Ellen Ashe 


women are good actresses; and Ellen was a 
writer who had long lived the parts she forced 
her heroines to play. And Ellen, too, was a 
woman who rose above convention; so with a 
very graceful bending of her American head 
she was presented to the ruler of Kerzdorf. 

As she stood alone on the balcony an hour 
later the man whose promised wife she was 
appeared at her side. The gallery was de- 
serted, for the prince had asked that he be al- 
lowed an hour’s conversation with Miss Ashe 
before she departed from the ancient castle, 
Inglostadt. 

Your .Royal Highness will permit my seek- 
ing the others?” she asked, attempting to pass 
the door; but again he barred the way to es- 
cape as on the afternoon of mystery, now so 
clear to her. She felt only pity for the pat- 
riotic German woman who would not present 
her sovereign to a traveler in his cousin’s little 
kingdom. 

“Not unless you will not stay,” he replied, 
taking her hand. Ellen drew it from his touch 
as though it had burned her. 

“You dare,” she began, with blazing eyes. 
Then, remembering where she was, she turned 
away, and, resting one hand upon the railing, 
looked down into the tree tops that tapped 
against the wall below her feet. 


122 


Kerzdorf 


^Will you listen to me for a little hour?^’ 
asked the man whose voice had a wonderful 
power to arouse the lights in her eyes. And 
now they flashed at him. 

^^Your Highness, I am a traveler, a guest in 
your realm. I cannot refuse to hear you,” and 
Ellen Ashe, the American, had spoken. 

^^The promise to become my wife I shall 
hold you to,” he said in a low, cool voice, re- 
taining the hand she tried to free. He was 
looking at the rich heart of a ruby that had 
been slipped on the third finger soon after the 
moonlight night among the roses. Ellen dis- 
covered too late that she had not yet removed 
it. Her face crimsoned with mingled anger 
against herself and the man from whose merci- 
less power she seemed strangely unable to free 
herself. 

“But you have granted me permission to 
speak,” he continued, releasing her hand at 
last. “Ellen — Ashe,” he began slowly, looking 
into the brown eyes that wavered a little be- 
neath his gaze, “I asked you to become my 
wife because I love you. You promised to 
marry the Baron Kaff; and is it so that you 
did not promise to marry — the man ?” he asked, 
his tone shading into an emphasis. 

Ellen’s head was thrown back with one of 
the quick, haughty movements that were so 


123 


Ellen AsJie 


new to her. ^^But you know that, had I been 
aware of the fact that you were cousin to a 
king, I would not have given that promise ?” 
she asked, quietly slipping the ring from her 
finger. 

The Prince of Kerzdorf lifted his brows a 
little. His eyes held just a hint of the ruler 
as he said, a degree removed from his former 
manner, “You know my cousin, then? He is 
an important consideration, to be sure, in his 
own country, but I suppose, here in Kerzdorf” 
— and with a half-apologetic shrug the prince 
included the principality in a little gesture of 
indifference. 

“I ask your Highness to forgive the insult. 
It is hard for me to think of you as a ruler,” 
and Ellen’s manner was both confused and 
winning. 

“Then don’t try, now; but think of me as 
you please,” he added, quickly, as Ellen’s 
haughtiness returned at his words, “only give 
me a reason for your undeserved rejection of 
me,” he concluded. 

The royal head needed no crown, Ellen 
thought, as he stood waiting for her reply. 
“Your Highness asks that of me, an Amer- 
ican?” she questioned, in tones of unmistak- 
able surprise. “Your mother is the sister of a 
king, and the royal families do not receive 


124 


Eerzdorf 


Americans as wives.” Her eyes were becoming 
danger signals again. 

‘Hsually; but my family is represented 
by its head,” the prince responded quietly. 

^^The laws of your country,” began Ellen, 
but he interrupted her for the first time. 

“The laws governing the court etiquette of 
a tiny kingdom like Kerzdorf are far less 
strict than those of the great kingdoms you 
are familiar with. There are no laws against 
such a marriage, no family objections,” and he 
smiled, “and the little principality whose 
crown has by chance of fate fallen upon my 
head will be honored in its American princess, 
if you become my wife.” 

And now there is no moon, no tower, no 
Rhine to say, Ellen Ashe, or the Princess of 
Kerzdorf ? 


125 



































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